


Homestead

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Smallville
Genre: BIG TIME hurt/comfort, Child Abuse, Clark needs to give it to him, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lex needs a hug, Like, Lionel is a dick, M/M, at least to start, future smut, kids!Clark and Lex, men smooching men, slashy slashiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 83,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark/Lex. Smallville didn’t have meteor freaks during 1860…or did they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Alexander!”

 

Lillian wiped her hands on the calico apron she wore and gave the cast iron skillet one last toss to finish browning the potatoes. She waited another minute before turning toward the stairwell. She crossed the room and cupped her hands around her mouth.

“ALEXANDER! Wash up, Alex, it’s time to come down!” She heard her husband’s heavy boots at the head of the stairs. “Lionel?” The patina of her voice shifted, becoming more deferential.

 “Lillian?” he replied drolly. “Have you lost something?” She sighed as she retreated to the stove. He was greeted by her slender back as he descended the stairs and entered the immaculate kitchen. Lillian’s sable hair shone in the sunlight, pulled snugly into a neat chignon.

“Breakfast is ready,” he assumed.

“Let me serve you a plate, Lionel.” She selected a willow-patterned plate and ladled it with potatoes, eggs and a thick slice of fried ham. He watched her graceful movements but refrained from seating himself.

Upstairs, a battle of wills was happening between a young boy and a button.

“Stupid…button…BLAST!” He struggled with the snug fastening, fumbling as he attempted to push the tiny disc through the finely stitched hole.

“Alex!” his father boomed. “Come downstairs, son. I won’t allow disobedience. 

“Father…” he began petulantly.

“Now, son.” His father’s tone ceased his fumbling and made him straighten up.

 

“I’m coming now, Father,” he answered soberly. He started reluctantly toward the door and caught sight of his reflection in the costly silver mirror atop the cherrywood vanity.

 

“They’ll hate me,” he whispered sadly to the glass. Slate blue eyes stared accusingly at the snuff brown wool jacket and vest. He ran a slim, pale hand over his bare scalp. Resigned, he headed downstairs.

 

“There you are, Alexander, let me look at you!” Lillian demanded. Her face glowed with pride as he stood on the bottom step, hesitating. His mother reached for him, automatically smoothing the collar of his lawn shirt.

 

“It itches, Mother,” he complained, but he blossomed beneath his mother’s fond regard as she brushed the jacket with her palms for stray lint.

 

“Stop fussing and fawning over him, Lillian,” Lionel snorted. “Fix your jacket, son. Carry yourself like a man.” It was a tall order for a boy of ten.

 

“Father, I can’t fasten it,” he replied sheepishly.

 

Lionel was silent for a moment before he shook his head, chuckling under his breath.

 

“Alex, Alex,” he began, “what are we going to do with you?”

 

WHAP!

 

Alex spun from his father with the impact of the slap and clutched his throbbing cheek. He stared at him wide-eyed and covered the stark red spot with his palm. Lillian shook with shock.

 

“LIONEL!”

 

“Never say ‘can’t’ to me, son. Ever. I won’t have disappointing children in my house.” Lionel’s eyes were stony chips, even though his face was tranquil. He stepped back and jerked the lapels of his jacket straight with emphasis.

 

Slowly Alex stood and imitated the gesture without a further word. Yet he continued to try to fasten the stubborn button.

 

“Here,” Lillian urged, “let me look at it, darling.” She studied it carefully. “Oh, I can fix it. Let me get my sewing scissors. The hole’s too tight. That’s why it won’t go through, Alexander.”

 

“Don’t coddle him, Lillian.” She peered over her shoulder at him as she turned away and went to fetch her sewing basket.

 

She’d pay for her impudence, turning her back to him.

 

Alex didn’t sit until his father did. Once the meal was finished, Alex rose to help his mother clear the dishes until his father tutted at him to stop.

 

“Your place isn’t in the kitchen, son. Leave your mother to her chores.”

 

“Yessir,” he mumbled.

 

“I didn’t hear you, son.”

 

“Yes, Father,” he amended, raising his voice half a notch and adding what conviction he could muster.

 

“Get ready. Lillian, give him his lunch and his other things and have him meet me outside in five minutes. We’re taking the coach.” Lex groaned inwardly and curled his toes inside the expensive leather boots on his feet. He knew the other students would arrive via their fathers’ wagons or on foot. Now he wouldn’t just be a spectacle; he’d be a target.

 

His mother’s hands smoothed over him again, adjusting his collar, his cuffs, flattening a pucker in his vest. Soothingly she cradled his cheek in her palm. Her brown eyes were deep and soft.

 

“Your father…he’s a demanding man, Alexander. We must work hard to please him, I know, but he gives us the best life he can. He has certain expectations.”

 

“Of you, too, Mother?” She nodded and smiled.

 

“Of me, too, certainly, son,” she sighed. They shared the quiet, secret smile that they’d perfected since he’d been old enough to grow teeth. She’d finished her meticulous work with her scissors and a needle and thread. His button was snugly fastened, and he looked fastidious and neat.

 

And thoroughly out of place.

 

Lillian kissed the top of his head and embraced him.

 

“Make me proud, Alexander,” she whispered. His slender arms wrapped themselves tightly around her waist, something he seldom dared for fear of his father’s reprisal. Lionel was a hard man and possessive of his wife’s affections, jealous even of his own son.

 

Alex was shooed out the door with his lunch pail and a brand new slate. He joined his father in the back of the coach, sitting up straight and craning his neck to watch the scenery go by.

 

Smallville was small, dusty and flat, with the exception of a small cluster of hills and caves on the outskirts of town. Local rumor had it that they were populated by Indians, but the claim was never substantiated. The children enjoyed making up tales and legends, challenging each other to explore the caves, but no one had taken the bait before.

 

Up until today.

 

A small group of boys were lounging outside the schoolhouse when they arrived, fiddling with a pile of marbles. They gave his father’s stagecoach long, curious looks as it pulled up, distracting them from their game.

 

Alex scrutinized them from the safety of the interior, hunching down within his coat and felt hat.

 

“A few of them look like they’re your age, Alex,” his father remarked. “I know you’ll set them a fine example of how a young man behaves and excels in his studies.”

 

“What if they don’t like me?”

 

“That’s up to you. But it’s not important what they think of you, Alex, just that they respect you and know they’re place.” Lionel settled his weighty stare on him and beckoned to his coachman to open the door. He clapped his son’s shoulder briefly, as close to an affectionate gesture as he ever made. “I’ll see you at dinner, son. I expect a full account of your day.” Alex nodded and accepted the coachman’s help from the vehicle. He moved away from the coach, just far enough for Nate to whistle for the horses to take them away. He avoided the dust that they kicked up, careful not to scuff his new footwear.

 

The boys were already sniggering amongst themselves. Most of the boys were slightly shorter than he was but sturdy. Their skin was tanned from time spent in the sun. Alex, by contrast, was reed thin and fair, with the beginnings of a spray of freckles over his nose.

 

Alex squirmed in his hot suit; the sun was already high in the sky, and it was only nine o’clock.

 

“Hey!” one of the boys shouted, elbowing his neighbor. “What’s your name, queer boy?”

 

“I’m not queer,” he shot back. Alex felt his face reddening, both due to the heat and his frustration.

 

“Bet your mother doesn’t want you to get your fancy clothes dirty, queer boy! Mama’s boy! Go run home to Mama!” he jeered. The boy was smug, dark brown eyes glittering. His smile was gap-toothed and broad. Alex had the benefit of his big front teeth already being grown in, but he still felt self-conscious.

 

“Don’t say that about my mother!” he warned them. They continued to jeer and stick out their tongues.

 

“Aw, what’re you gonna do, queer boy, blubber like a baby? Baby, baby,” he chanted, spurring a chorus of it from his peers. They resembled a flock of magpies.

 

“Hey, take off that sissy hat, Queer Boy!” It was officially his name, now. His first day of school, and he’d already been branded.

 

“I don’t have to, you cretin,” Alex sniffed, using one of his father’s favorite words.

 

“Then I’ll take it off for ya!” the boy crowed, picking up a huge rock from the ground and hooking it back, letting it fly free. It whizzed through the air. Alex was so intent on watching it fly that he forgot to duck.

 

<i>Thwock!!</i> “OW!”

 

Pain exploded and throbbed over his eyebrow. His hat landed in the dust, dismaying him.

 

His mother would be very disappointed that he’d soiled his new hat…

 

He heard a sharp intake of breath and muted gasps.

 

“Jesus,” one of the older boys hissed, not caring about the profanity. “He’s bald!”

 

“Like an egg,” another one marveled. “He’s queer, and he has no hair!”

 

“Egghead!”

 

Blood oozed from the cut, and he watched them through a haze of pain. His fingers curled around the fallen rock, its cold, smooth surface tempting him…

 

“What are you boys doing over there?” shouted a deep, rough voice over the clatter of hoofbeats and creaky wagon wheels. He heard a matched pair of Morgans nicker and whinny as he halted them. Boots thumped to the ground, heading for him as he recovered his wits. He held his temple and stared up into the face of a man with kind blue eyes.

 

“Pa! Pa! What happened?” called a young voice behind them. Alex stared at a boy of about six hopping down from the wagon without permission, darting over to where he sat and uncaring of the dust that he kicked up in the meantime. “You’re bleeding!” he exclaimed. His green eyes were wide with interest and surprise. He turned and stared at the boys, who turned away and tried to act innocent in the face of adult wrath.

 

“Hey!” The man was clearly a farmer, if his long gait and brawny build were any indication. He had the broad shoulders of someone who slung hay bales and handled a yoke of oxen as easily as breathing. “Are you boys making trouble? Why’s this young man bleeding on the ground?” They searched for a reply and backed up toward the schoolhouse stairs.

 

“I expect an answer, and quickly, or I’ll have to speak to your teacher. And she’ll contact your parents,” he promised grimly. The set of his mouth was mulish and hard as he stood with his hands on his hips. He wore rough garb; his shirt was made of some homespun looking material in medium beige, and he wore dark brown trousers with black suspenders. His hair was sunstreaked and blond beneath his brown, wide-brimmed hat.

 

“We were doin’ nothin’,” piped up a boy with a strawberry birthmark on his cheek, giving him an emphatic shrug.

 

“You weren’t doing anything,” he corrected him.

 

“We weren’t, see?” he grinned, hoping the turn of phrase worked in his favor.

 

“Does it hurt?” a small voice over Alex’s shoulder whispered. It was the boy again.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it looks like it hurt,” he replied. His face was wreathed in sympathy.

 

Despite himself, Alex smiled up into the small face.

 

The child had an odd, piquant beauty. His green eyes almost swallowed up his face, bottle green with amber bursts around the pupils. His skin was tanned, but not as darkly as the other children or his father’s. He was strapping and tall for his age, and he had rosy lips and cheeks. His hair was wavy and a glossy black, a sharp contrast to his complexion.

 

The boy grinned suddenly, revealing pearly white teeth; he was only missing his top two.

 

“I’m Clark!” he announced.

 

“Alex,” he grunted before he could stop himself. Why was he talking to this little snot?

 

And why was he letting some simple farmer fight his battles for him?

 

Alex rose and dusted himself off, straightening his jacket. The little boy jumped into action, acting as his “valet” as he retrieved his lunch pail, which thankfully hadn’t spilled, as well as the new slate.

 

“You look different,” he mused, eyeing Alex’s fine clothes.

 

“Different from you, maybe,” he shot back, and his voice held a hard edge. He sighed and took his belongings from the lad. “I’m starting school here today.”

 

“My daddy’s big and strong. We live on a farm,” little Clark boasted.

 

“Oh, yeah? Well, my father owns stagecoaches and the store on Main Street!” Alex bragged, and for once he was thankful for his father’s position in Smallville.

 

They were interrupted by the sound of Clark’s father’s booming baritone and Midwestern accent, giving the predatory schoolboys what-for.

 

“Real men don’t gang up against one person like that,” he scolded sternly. “I know your parents,” he informed them, pointing to the one who threw the rock,” and yours, Whitley Fordman, and yours, Jason Teague.”

 

“Oooooo,” hooted a low voice from behind the crowd. His neighbor elbowed him sharply in the ribs to silence him.

 

“I’d take a strap to my own son’s backside if he treated someone like that,” he went on. “I’m not above planting that suggestion with your own parents if I notice something like that happening again. Or with Mrs. Sullivan,” he offered.

 

That made them pale. The schoolteacher was a legend in town, still teaching despite the fact that she was married. Her young daughter, Chloe, was smart, impish, and far too involved in people’s business. Word of the conflict would spread far and wide…

 

“Please,” Alex whispered. “Please, don’t say anything else.”

 

“Why not?” Clark whispered back, tugging on Alex’s jacket sleeve. “My pa will make it all right. He doesn’t like it when people are mean.”

 

“I don’t want him to say anything,” Alex hissed back. “It’ll make everything worse!” He hurried forward and planted himself between Clark’s father and the boys.

 

“Sir,” Alex began, “I’m fine. See? It was an accident. I just fell. No one ganged up on me.” Alex’s face was serene, yet pleading.

 

Jonathan Kent stared at the unusual boy for several long seconds. He took in the expensive-looking clothes, granted, but what floored him were his eyes. Slate blue with a distinct gleam of intelligence. But that wasn’t all. They were <i>ancient.</i> Old man’s eyes in such a young, pure face. His face was lean, already devoid of the baby fat other boys his age still had.

 

His scalp was completely bald; even the follicles appeared to have closed up, leaving the skin there poreless and smooth. Jonathan wondered if he’d had a bout with scarlet fever. He couldn’t fathom why else his parents would keep his head shaved, if that were the case, with such extremes of weather that were well known in Smallville.

 

Meanwhile, his lips were running on autopilot. “There’s no reason to tell Mrs. Sullivan anything, sir. I mean, she doesn’t have to know anything about my accident!” Jonathan inclined his head toward him and reached out. Alex flinched. That gave Jonathan pause.

 

Someone had mistreated the boy…

 

“Hold still, son,” he murmured, and he reached out to brush some of the dirt from Alex’s jacket. Clark watched with interest as he led his new friend toward the water pump on the other side of the schoolhouse. Behind them, Clark heard the boys talking and chortling.

 

They had no idea how much he could hear.

 

“Look at that mama’s boy. Needs Kent’s pa to protect him.”

 

“Maybe he should go back home in that fancy coach he came in,” snorted Jack, the oldest of the boys. “Whadda you think, Pete?” Pete Ross was thoughtful and quiet, reaching up beneath his short-brimmed cap to scratch his head. The gesture revealed his brassy auburn hair.

 

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “So he rides in a fancy coach. So what?” He sat down and counted his marbles. “Must be nice.” A few of the boys looked thoughtful.

 

“What’s your name, son?”

 

It unnerved him, hearing another man call him “son,” yet who looked at him with such kind regard.

 

“Alex. Excuse me…Alexander Luthor, sir.”

 

“He likes Alex,” Clark chimed in, looking proud that he remembered. Jonathan was pumping water and splashing a lawn handkerchief he had in his pocket. He wrung it out and used it to daub the cut over Alex’s brow. The scarlet gash was stark against the paleness of his skin. Jonathan tsked under his breath; it would leave a scar on that pristine face. Thankfully the blood hadn’t stained his jacket.

 

“I’m okay now,” Alex huffed, backing away and gently removing himself from Jonathan’s grip. The man grunted and nodded.

 

“All right, then.” He turned to Clark briefly. “Son, I’m heading to the blacksmith’s. I’ll be in town a while. Your mother will bring you home today. Mind her, mind your teacher and behave yourself.”

 

“Yes, Pa,” he replied obediently. To Alex’s surprise, Clark launched himself at Jonathan and hugged him firmly around the waist. Jonathan looked upon him fondly, and a smile crinkled at the corners of his eyes. He ruffled his son’s dark curls and gave him one last pat. Jonathan took his leave, whistling jauntily. Alex didn’t recognize the tune.

 

He steered his wagon back onto the gravel road.

 

The rest of his day wasn’t much better.

 

Slowly, more students swarmed the schoolyard. The girls began congregating and chattering near the steps, resembling a field of wildflowers in their dresses of calico trimmed in ruffles and pleats. Two in particular caught his attention and made him suppress a smile.

 

They were a study in opposites. They were about Clark’s age, from what he could tell. One had glossy sable hair and an olive complexion. Her eyes were an unusual, mottled shade of hazel; one moment, they appeared brown. When the sun hit them, they were a mossy green. She had delicate features and wore an apple green dress sprigged with white flowers and high-buttoned boots. Her hair was braided in thick, snug cables that hung down her chest.

 

She had her arm around her companion’s waist and giggled at something she whispered into her ear. And she appeared to be giggling at Clark.

 

<i>A crush.</i> How…cute. Alex smirked as he doodled on his slate, not caring that it was for school.

 

The second girl was blonde and fair. Her eyes were robin’s egg blue and wide, and her smile was also wide and slightly dimpled. Her looks were more open and approachable. Her hair appeared to have been rag-rolled into neat curls and were tied back from her face with a light blue ribbon that matched her dress. Her bonnet hung tied by its strings around her neck. For some reason, she was the one who looked like trouble.

 

A woman with caramel brown hair pulled back in a snug chignon and wearing reading glasses came out of the school and stood at the top of the steps. She surveyed the children on the grounds and sighed before she rang the bell. It chimed as the students lined themselves up in a neat row, preparing to fine inside.

 

Clark attached himself to Alex’s side like a little burr. “We have to be quiet. Mrs. Sullivan says so,” he whispered loudly. Alex grinned.

 

“All right, Clark,” he whispered back. Clark’s eyes widened.

 

“SHHHH!” he shushed him, holding his little index finger up to his lips. He smiled as though they were privy to some great secret.

 

Despite himself, Alex liked Clark Kent.


	2. Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two different boys. Two different fathers.

The students filled the desks in pairs; the younger children situated themselves reluctantly in the front. That was the last that Alex would see of Clark until lunch time. 

He had to compete for his seat.

“Hey! Only the big kids get to sit back here,” Jason informed him, his voice flinty and implacable. He folded his arms across his chest. Jack was only a couple of inches taller than Alex, even though there was about a three-year age difference between them. “Go up there with the rest of the crybabies, Baldy!” he sneered.

“No. I won’t. I belong back here.” Steel sprang into Alex’s spine, and he had a vision of his father in his mind, watching him disapprovingly.

No one told a Luthor what to do, especially not with so much scorn.

“And I said you have to move up front. This is my seat,” Jack insisted. Blond Whitley sidled up to him and looked only too happy to assist his friend.

“You heard him, Mama’s Boy,” he sniggered, looking proud of himself.

“All I heard was two cretins opening their mouths and proving it,” he retorted. Whitley’s face screwed up like he tasted sour milk.

“Take that back,” Jason warned, “or you’ll be sorry for it.”

“Make me.” Alex’s eyes narrowed as he sized him up.

Jason responded by snatching his hat off his head and crowing “Look, everybody, he’s bald!” The other children turned and a wave of shocked gasps rippled through the room.

“He has no hair,” marveled the blonde girl he saw earlier.

“Chloe, be quiet,” Clark nagged, reaching over to pinch her. She turned and stuck out her tongue.

“I won’t tolerate these antics in my schoolroom,” Mrs. Sullivan announced crisply. She swept toward the back of the classroom, skirts swishing gracefully behind her. “Jason Teague,” she greeted him. “The hat, please.”

“It’s mine,” Alex informed her.

“Not until after class. We do not wear hats in class, either, young man. Now sit, while I call roll.” She plucked the cap out of Jason’s grasp.

“He’s sitting in my seat,” Jason complained.

“You and Whitley may sit over there,” she decided, nodding to the row of seats second from the back. There was one unoccupied desk in the middle, easily within sight of her own. Jason turned to Alex and glared. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Alex silently took his own seat, sat up straight and folded his hands.

Alex was both surprised and annoyed that Jason appeared to be as smart as he was, particularly in history and reading. Alex, on the other hand, excelled in mathematics and science, and Jason and Whitley periodically scowled back at him whenever he raised his hand and gave the correct answer. Alex’s handwriting was copperplate and tidy. Mrs. Sullivan clucked approvingly from over his shoulder.

Lunch managed not to be a solitary affair as Clark once again found him, sitting beside him uninvited and digging into his lunch.

“I’ve never seen you in town before,” Clark mumbled as he took a bite out of his jam sandwich.

“That’s because I’m not from town. My father decided we had to leave Metropolis City,” he replied. Alex unwrapped a small handkerchief of gingersnaps and handed Clark one, to the boy’s delight.

“Why?”

“He said it was time for a change. And he bought the store on Main.” To Alex’s mind, that was all Clark needed to know.

“I live with my Ma and Pa on the farm.”

“You told me that already.”

“Oh.”

“You talk a lot,” Alex commented.

“You talk funny,” Clark argued, but his voice held no malice. Alex rocked back on his haunches, surprised. The little snot… “What does that word mean? Cretin?”

“It means a fool. Someone who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. My father uses it when he comes home from work and talks about the men who work for him.”

“Oh.” Clark bit into the cookie and spoke around a mouthful. “That’s not nice.”

“My father can say whatever he wants to whoever he wants.” He mimicked Clark’s boast from the schoolyard. “He’s big and strong, too. And powerful.”

They sat quietly and ate. Whitley, Jason and their friends were still watching them balefully from the shade of a tree.

“Let’s play ball,” Whitley offered. “Bet Mama’s Boy can’t play to save his life!”

“Wouldn’t want him to play, anyway,” Jason scoffed. “He might ruin the game.”

“Alex?”

“What, Clark?”

“What happened to all of your hair?”

“I lost it. I don’t really remember how.” He sighed. “Just as well. It was red as the devil’s,” he said, again mimicking his father’s words. “My father said it was a brand of someone who was no good, and it was just as well that it’s gone. He said that was my punishment for being a disobedient son.”

“Alex?”

“What?” he muttered, already tiring of the conversation.

“If you’re a good boy…will it grow back?”

 

~0~

The sun had lowered itself in the sky by the time class was over. Alex dutifully retrieved his hat. Mrs. Sullivan’s eyes were kinder than they appeared before behind her spectacles.

“I hope you’ll follow the rules I set forth in my classroom, Alexander. I expect no less.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked wounded and vulnerable, but again, there was that uncanny intelligence and insight for a boy of ten.

He marched out of the schoolhouse just in time for Jason and Whitley to appear.

“See you tomorrow, Queer Boy,” Jason jeered, giving him a hard shove.

“Ow!” They boys walked away, shooting him glances over their shoulders. The cut over his brow still strung, and frustration filled him, making his heart pound in his chest.

He dropped his slate, nearly breaking it, and launched himself at Jason with all of his strength, shoving him squarely in the back. Jason was knocked off his feet.

“NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON A LUTHOR!” Alex bellowed, and suddenly he was a changed boy.

He delivered a hail of blows, striking Jason wherever his fists landed. They weren’t open-handed slaps. Jason gave staccato cries of protest and held up his hands to defend his face as he tried to roll Alex off of him. The younger boy’s face looked like that of a man possessed. His eyes were flinty and filled with rage, and his cheeks were florid.

“No one shoves me! I’m a Luthor! I’m a LUTHOR!” The girls in the schoolyard shrieked in fear and disgust. The boys were cheering and taunting as their favorite was trounced by the interloper.

They’d talk about it for days to come.

Alex cared nothing for the grass stains he earned on his breeches, nor the torn seam in the armscye of his jacket. It felt too good, letting his knuckles connect with Jason’s lean cheeks, feeling the harsh smack of flesh against flesh. It was satisfying to watch the boy’s face twist in pain in return for his wrongdoing. Sooooo gooooooood…

“ALEXANDER LUTHOR!” Mrs. Sullivan’s voice took no prisoners. She sailed across the schoolyard and tugged both boys apart. Alex was panting and wild-eyed as she grasped him by the arm.

“Alexander, I expected better of you than this.” She said the words that every child dreaded with chilling fear: “I’m going to have to tell your father about this.”

His gut twisted into a knot, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

Clark stumbled forward. “I saw it, Mrs. Sullivan! It was Jason, he –“

“Be quiet, Clark,” Alex barked. “I don’t need you to butt in.” He instantly regretted his words. Clark looked shocked, then sad as he stepped back and hunched his little shoulders in defeat. He’d shunned his champion.

 

~0~

The ride in his father’s coach was long and just as dreadful as Alex expected it to be. His father was grim and stern beside him as Alex stared miserably out the window.

“It isn’t just that you fought, son. It’s that you lost.”

“But I didn’t…” He grimaced in pain as his father’s hand wrapped around his upper arm and nearly cut off the circulation.

“There’s a cut, plain as day, practically laying your head open, Alexander. That’s the mark of a loser. I won’t tolerate losers. Tell me how it happened. Now.”

Alex swallowed his tears, but his father saw the sheen lingering in his eyes. His expression became venomous as he jerked his son closer, until they were nose to nose. His father’s eyes dilated, and he saw the faint flare of his nostrils, felt his hot breath.

“Now, Alexander,” he murmured silkily.

“H-he threw a stone at me. He took my by surprise.”

“And that was your first mistake,” Lionel shrugged. To Alex’s surprise, he released him, lightly shoving him back against the finely upholstered seat. “Never let anyone catch you by surprise.” He nodded to the gash. “Let that mark remind you next time, son.”

“Yes, Father.” They were silent the rest of the way home.

Lillian nearly dropped her spoon back into the stew she was stirring when he sauntered into the kitchen.

“Oh, heavens! Alexander?” she cried, flying across the room and lightly touching the cut. Alex winced but still welcomed her affections, even though he felt his father’s irritation in waves against his back.

“Leave him, Lillian. Alex and I need to have a talk in private. It doesn’t concern you.” She paled.

She was familiar with her husband’s “talks.”

“Lionel. Let him have his dinner. And let me treat his cut. Please.” Her tone was plaintive.

All he saw was weakness in her eyes. “Dinner can wait until after I’ve spoken to my son. Don’t concern yourself in this, Lillian.” Her hands twisted in her apron, and she finally looked away, bowing her head.

Lionel marched his son upstairs to his room. He looked around it in disgust. “All of these nice things, wasted on a boy who doesn’t deserve or appreciate them. I’m ashamed of you, Alex. Ashamed and embarrassed. It’s bad enough you attract so much attention because of your condition, but what happened today is intolerable. I won’t have the people in this miserable little town talking about the Luthors just because my own flesh and blood acted impulsively.”

“But I’m not,” Alex said in a low voice. 

“What…did you say?”

“I’m not your son,” he said simply, shrugging.

Lionel’s face filled with rage. Hectic color rose up his cheeks, all the way to his hairline.

“Take off your jacket. Now.” Lionel was already removing his wide belt. Fear bloomed in Alex’s chest.

“Father…I didn’t mean it. Please! Don’t!”

“I won’t tolerate disrespect from _my son._ Not in _my house._ ”

Alex seldom provoked his father. Once in a great while, the boy would snap. He didn’t care about the consequences. One day, whether it was sooner or later, he didn’t care, his father would kill him. Then, perhaps, they’d both be free. He’d never disappoint him again.

“Take that off. Better yet, take everything off.” Alex froze. “Or I will do it for you.” He didn’t like the glazed look in his father’s eye or the set of his mouth. His knuckles turned white from the unbreakable grip he had on his belt. It galvanized Alex into action. His fingers fumbled once again with that damned button, this time accidentally popping it off. He shrugged off the jacket and neatly laid it over the back of the chair. He followed it with his shirt, undoing the cuffs and top button and simply tugging it off over his head.

His father eyed him thoughtfully. His mouth was a firm, flat line, yet there was satisfaction in his face, like a dungeon keeper watching his broken prisoner crawl chained in the dust. “Weak. Just like your mother. Pull them down and bend over.” Alex was mortified. He was already half-naked and feeling the chill in his room, despite the warm autumn weather.

“Down!” he barked. A lone silvery tear streaked down Alex’s cheek as he did as he was bade. He shook as he turned his back and slowly unbuttoned his trousers. He let them hit the floor with a plop. They pooled around his ankles, leaving him in his drawers.

His father gave him a harsh shove before reaching down to grasp the waist of the drawers, shucking them from him and rending the seams. His son’s rangy body was exposed and pale, vulnerable looking but full of wiry strength. He would grow into a man with his father’s powerful body and commanding presence, but regrettably, not today. Today, he was just a boy. Unwanted. Unloved.

But no longer unmarked.

_Crack._ The belt whistled through the air. _Crack. Crack. Thwap. Crack. Swish. Crack._

Lionel’s upper arm muscles screamed for relief as he brought it up again and again, letting it land on his son’s unprotected flesh. Alex let his tears flow freely now. He’d learned that holding them back only made a difference before the beatings began, in the hopes that his father thought he was strong enough to earn his mercy.

Savage joy and power surged through Lionel, heady and addictive. He’d tried. Oh, how he’d tried to love this miserable wretch. _Lillian betrayed him._ He’d known it the moment he brought his bride, untouched and pure as morning dew, back to his family estate.

His hands froze as they roamed her bare flesh once they were abovestairs, and he claimed his conjugal rights. Her body was supple and glowing, her flesh golden and ripe.

Her belly was rounded with the faint swell of a three-month pregnancy. The veins were visibly beneath her skin, and her nipples were a deep, rich scarlet. The moment the tenderness left his face, her eyes filled with horror.

His son had his mother’s expressions. The same laugh, the same frown – when Lillian was permitted to frown, and by all that was holy, Lionel would have the final say in that regard, too – and the same wounded look. Weak. Useless.

Lillian’s father was red-haired and freckled, although his complexion was more mottled. No one in Lionel’s family had red hair. His son’s cap of sparse red curls at birth stood out like a sore thumb when he lifted back the delicate white lace cap. Everyone remarked that the child was beautiful, and likely to be a handful, with that red hair. Luthor would have his hands full, they accused.

“Please,” Alex whimpered. “Please, oh, please, Father. Please,” he moaned. “I don’t do it again! I won’t do it again! I promise, Father!” He repeated it, chanted it like a prayer to an unforgiving god.

“You. Are. My. Son. You. Will. Obey. Me.” _Crack. Crack. Crack._ The fair skin reddened. Long, vertical welts began to appear, and he watched his son’s knees falter and buckle, but he jerked him back up until he was bent over the bed. The boy clawed at the covers, threatening to rend the fine lace.

Lionel was so lost in it that he almost didn’t hear his wife’s sobs reaching him up the corridor of the stairs. Euphoria saturated his senses, and he focused on the sudden hardness between his legs. That was when he knew he’d had enough.

“Get dressed and come down to dinner in two minutes,” he ordered. He wrapped his belt around his hand and took his leave.

“Why.” Alex clawed at the covers as he slid down to his knees, leaning his forehead against his wrists. “Why, God. Why.”

 

~0~

“What did you learn in school today, Clark?” Martha pried as she served both father and son a fresh biscuit.

“I met a new boy. He likes it when you call him Alex.” She lifted her brows at Jonathan in surprise. He shrugged, then nodded for his son to continue.

“Really?”

“He’s bigger’n me, but smaller than Pa.” He was eyeing the stew greedily as she ladled it onto his plate. Clark had a massive appetite for a six-year-old, something that both made her proud yet made her fear for their expenses. “And Ma, he has no hair!” 

“Goodness,” she mused. “That is unusual.”

“You have to meet him, Martha, to believe him. You have never seen anything like that young man.” He sighed. “His father is Lionel Luthor.”

“Oh, my,” she murmured. “The man who bought the store from old Simon Ross?” He nodded as he took a sip of milk.

“One and the same. I saw him at the barber shop on Thursday.” He huffed thoughtfully. “The boy looks nothing like him, though.”

“Maybe he’s like me,” Clark considered, surprising his mother.

“How, son?”

“I don’t look like you and Pa. I wanna be big like Pa, though.” Martha’s eyes clouded over with worry, and when she looked at her husband, his did the same.

“You will, darling. You will.”

“Alex talks funny.” Clark was chugging down his milk and was about to wipe his mouth on his shirt until Martha reached forward with a tea towel and did it for him. “But he gave me a cookie.”

“I’ll give you some to share with him tomorrow, Clark.”

When dinner was over, Jonathan made Clark recite his alphabet and read to him from a passage of one of his story books. Their son was remarkably bright from the start, ever since the day they brought him into their lives. Jonathan always joked that they didn’t find Clark; he found them.

Martha eventually went to wash the dishes before retiring to the sitting room to work on her quilt. 

“Come with me, son. We need to move the hay into the farm.” Clark’s green eyes lit up.

“Oh, boy!” he cried eagerly as he ran out the front door. Jonathan chuckled; he was so easy to please.

Only in the secluded openness of the Kent farm could Clark stretch his wings and be himself.

“Race you to the barn, Pa!” he crowed as he reached for the hay bale closest to the end of the wagon.

“Stack them beside the stable,” his father reminded him, “and be careful.”

_Whoosh!_ He watched in his usual awe as Clark grasped the bale by its short sides, hefted it against his chest as though it were lighter than a gunny sack, and darted into the barn.

How many six-year-old boys could lift a seventy-pound hay bale by themselves without straining so much as a finger? Let alone several within the course of a few minutes?

Clark was the Kent family’s best kept secret. But if there was one thing Jonathan knew, it was that his young son was innocent and trusting, and that they had to protect him from prying eyes.


	3. Seen and Not Heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex adjusts to life in Smallville, with new complications.

Author’s Note: Don’t hate me.

“I lit the stove, Mother.”

“Don’t turn it up too high, Alexander,” Lillian chided as she bent over the crib. Julian ceased his sobbing as she gently lifted him to her shoulder and patted out a gas bubble. His answering belch was loaded with the promise of spit-up but made Alex giggle. Julian chewed his tiny fist as he stared over his mother’s shoulder at his elder brother. Alex made a silly face.

Julian gave him a gummy smile and ducked his face into his mother’s neck.

Alex heated the baby’s milk in the tiny pot on his mother’s gas stove, watching it carefully to make sure it didn’t overheat. He prepared the bottle and wrapped it in a tea towel.

“There’s a dear, Alex, set it down there,” she replied, gazing at him fondly as he stood it on the settee. Lillian found a willing helper in Alex when Julian was born. He spent any spare time when he wasn’t applying himself to school work or his piano lessons with his baby brother, carrying him about on his hip when he was cranky and awkwardly rocking him in his mother’s chair near the fireplace.

Julian was uncomplicated. His plump, soft little hands stroked his brother’s bald pate and reddish-gold eyebrows, and he’d coo in wonder at the quirks of his face when Alex talked to him.

Julian was the true blood son of Lillian and Lionel Luthor, but as the oldest son, Alex held the birthright to Lionel’s estate and properties. Nevertheless, Lionel always let Alex know his place in the family: At his feet.

Julian was fussy; his mother looked at her wit’s end.

“Mother, can I have him, please?”

“Julian, be a good boy, go with big brother Alexander, now,” she cajoled wearily. Alex took the baby and bounced him lightly as his mother handed him the embroidered flannel blanket.

The mood of the Luthor household had been tense ever since Alex’s first day of school. His father came and went, often showing up only for supper and leaving for much of the night. Alex often lay awake in his bed, musing and listening for his father’s heavy footsteps at the front door. Every night his mother asked the same question.

_Where have you been, Lionel?_

Every night the response was the same.

 _It doesn’t concern you where I am. What matters is that you’re where you belong, under this roof when I come home, Lillian._ There was little variation, except for the occasional threat growled in too low a tone for Alex’s ears. Every morning found his mother looking forlorn until they started the day. More specifically, until she retrieved Julian from his crib and inhaled the toasty, sweet scent of his skin.

Alex continued to excel in his studies, perhaps even to the point of becoming bored. He won no friends following the skirmish with Jason, but the boys were not as quick in coaxing him to fight.

Most days in the schoolyard found him alone, nose in a book, or taking a walk in the field, tossing a ball up in the air and catching it. He became the inevitable subject of gossip among the girls, and they delighted in picking him apart.

“He’s mean,” Chloe insisted one day. “He told me to mind my own beeswax when I asked him why he doesn’t have any hair.”

“Maybe it’s a secret,” Lana suggested helpfully. “Maybe a wicked witch put a spell on him!”

“There’s no such thing as witches, dummy,” Pete Ross cut in, looking up from his marbles. “Alex is just funny-looking, that’s all.” Then he nodded over at Clark, who was trotting across the yard to follow the loner beneath the trees. “I don’t know why Clark thinks he’s so great.”

“Probably because his pa has money,” Chloe sniffed. She and Lana sat side by side, drawing patterns in the gravel with a stick.

“I don’t think so,” Lana mused.

“But he does!” Chloe insisted.

“No, silly. Clark. He doesn’t care about things like that.” She stared at the two of them. “Maybe it’s because he’s a big kid.” Alex was taller than many boys his age, despite his slender frame.

“Everyone calls him queer,” Chloe pointed out. “Why would Clark want to play with someone like that who’s so odd-looking?”

“Maybe it’s because everybody needs someone to play with,” Pete mumbled. “C’mon,” he piped up as he dusted off his pants.

“Why?” Lana asked.

“Let’s go see what Clark’s up to.” Before Alex arrived at the Smallville school, he and Clark were thick as thieves. Pete’s reticence to befriend the new boy and risk ridicule had created an obstacle to spending time with his best friend. Clark was nonplussed. He liked who and what he liked, and that was that.

“Whitley and Jason are mean,” Lana complained. “Whitley dipped my ponytails in the inkwell.”

“He tripped me and made me step in a mud puddle,” Chloe added, wrinkling her pert nose. “He and Jason think they’re better than everyone else.”

“Their pas have money,” Lana said, as though that explained everything. 

They watched Pete descend upon Clark and Alex in the distance. He approached them with his hands tucked in his pockets, waiting to be acknowledged. 

From where they stood, Lex looked as strange as ever, but they couldn’t take their eyes off of him.

“What’re you doing?” Clark turned away from Alex a moment to face his friend, and his familiar smile widened with joy. 

Alex stared at them and felt a pang of jealousy in the pit of his belly.

“Nothin’,” Clark replied. “Siddown, Petey!”

“Petey?” Alex’s voice held a note of sarcasm. “That’s your name?”

“My name’s Pete,” he huffed. “Petey’s a baby’s name!”

“Maybe you are a baby.”

“Am not!” His face reddened.

“Lex, stop it,” Clark admonished. Pete looked mollified until Clark added, “Pete, stop acting like a baby.”

“AM NOT!”

“You act just like my brother Julian. He wears diapers and spits up his milk, and cries,” Alex taunted, just to get the younger boy’s goat.

“Why are you here, anyway? You’re the mama’s boy, Jason said so!”

“So?” Clark was staring at Pete like he had grown a second head. “You don’t like Jason, anyway.” It was true. Nevertheless, Pete still wanted his approval to avoid skirmishes in the schoolyard and to ensure a place on the baseball field.

“I bet you can’t even pitch,” Alex goaded.

“Bet I can!”

“Prove it.” Alex’s expression was sly. He produced a ball from the pocket of his baggy pants. He implored his mother to allow him some suitable clothes to fit in at the school. They were ordered from a catalog and made from richer fabrics, but they made him stand out less like a sore thumb. 

Alex rolled the ball in his hand, challenging him with his slate blue eyes.

“Go over there,” Pete barked. Alex backed up a few feet. “You heard me! Way out there!”

“You should just hand me the ball, baby,” Alex jeered.

“Let him throw it, Alex!” Clark said impatiently. “I wanna play, too!” He was beginning to feel left out, and it wasn’t fair. Alex trotted back a few more steps.

“Sissy,” Alex snorted, grinning.

“Fine! HERE!” _Snap!_ Pete drew back his arm and threw with all his might, face determined and flushed. 

Alex grunted as the ball hit him squarely in the breadbox, stinging him with the impact.

“Blast,” he muttered. That hurt! Pete caught the look of surprise and pain flitting across his face and stood a little taller. “Next time, try that when I have a bat!”

“Fine,” he promised. And he made good on his word.

The next day, Alex brought along a bat.

His leisure books lay neglected on the bench outside as the three boys began a daily ritual of playing baseball, or something like it, since there were only three. Lana and Chloe were their reluctant “outfield,” whenever they impatiently threw back the ball that rolled into their game of house. Pete and Alex suffered each other’s presence. The common thread binding them was Clark.

Clark’s invitations to bring Alex to his home on the farm were met with excuses and blank looks.

“Come and see Shelby,” Clark nagged. “He’s a good dog! He brings home rabbits and leaves ‘em on the doorstep!” His mother found the habit annoying until she found a recipe for rabbit stew.

“I can’t,” Alex sighed. “I have piano lessons.”

“You always have piano lessons,” Clark whined. “You have to see Shelby.”

“No, I don’t, Clark,” he dismissed, but he really did want to see the dog, and the horses, and the big red barn on Mr. Kent’s property. Alex lived within the bustle – if it could be called that, since Smallville had a population of roughly five hundred people – of downtown. He bemoaned that fact to his mother occasionally back when they lived in Metropolis City. There was nowhere for children to play and run. Even when he didn’t ride in his father’s coach, he had to hurry on quick feet down the walk, holding fast to his mother’s hand.

~0~

“You’re awfully quiet, Alex,” Lillian remarked as she stirred the chicken soup. Alex was on the floor, dangling one of Julian’s rattles just out of the baby’s reach. He’d shake it just within centimeters of his fingertips while the baby lay on his back, but before he could snatch it, he’d yank it away. Alex usually stopped just shy of when his giggles turned into wails of outrage.

“Mother,” he said thoughtfully, “I have a friend.”

She beamed. “That’s nice, Alexander. What’s his name? Who are his mother and father?”

“His name’s Clark Kent. They live on a farm.”

“You don’t know his parents’ names?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Kent,” he replied simply, shrugging. Lillian chuckled.

“I assume he comes from a good family, then?”

“I guess,” Alex shrugged again. He wasn’t comfortable with his own parents’ insistence that he only consort with the children of “reputable” families. “I…I was wondering…”

“Yes, Alexander?”

“Could I…could I let him come over to play?” Lillian put down her spoon and her eyes darkened with concern, and something akin to fear.

“Oh, Alexander…I don’t think so. No, I truly don’t think that would be appropriate. We don’t know his family, and your father…it isn’t a good idea, son.” Her heart broke when she saw how crestfallen Alex looked. The boy bowed his head, staring at his lap. Beside him, his brother cooed plaintively, wanting more games of peekaboo and the rattle. “Mother, can I go practice my piano now?”

The invisible wall between them rose up once again. He read the intent in her face: _Don’t provoke your father. Don’t let anyone see how we live. Please._

“Have you finished with your studies, Alexander?”

“Yes, Mother. I would really like to go, now.” He stood up straight and waited for his mother to dismiss him. Julian wriggled and screwed up his cherub face as the object of his adoration prepared to leave.

“Play something lovely, Alexander.”

“Yes, Mother.” He bent down and handed his brother the rattle. Julian squawked with protest as he left before cramming the end of the toy into his mouth. Lillian sighed miserably.

By no fault of his own, Alex was no longer her baby. And it burned.

Her only consolation was that Alex had a lifelong friend and the staunchest support a boy could ask for from Julian. His needs were uncomplicated, and he would never consider Alex a disappointment.

~0~

In the downstairs parlor, Alex labored over an adagio that had always given him trouble, watching his sheet music for the change in time on the fourth measure. The piano was lovingly finished and exquisitely constructed, and it stood as the centerpiece of the room. Golden sunlight streamed in through the windows and caressed him; his fair skin seemed to glow with inner light, and his face was so serene that it would have broken his mother’s heart, had she not been abovestairs napping with the baby.

He forgot about everything when he played. He wasn’t a freak. He wasn’t unloved. He wasn’t a disappointment. He reveled in the music, drawing succor and letting it heal his ills. He immersed himself in it, and everything else drifted away…

 _Tap. Tap. Whap!_ “Oh!” he cried under his breath, jerking up in surprise.

Something sparse clattered against the parlor window. When he looked up, Clark’s eyes and gappy grin peered back at him. Alex began to smile in spite of himself, but that look turned to worry when he saw the grandfather clock about to chime four. Lionel was due home for supper.

He rushed to the window and mouthed “C’mon! Go to the door!” Clark nodded eagerly and rounded the corner, stomping his way onto the front porch.

“LEX!” He was bursting with excitement. “I came to see you! Let’s go!” He was wringing his hands and practically dancing. Clark’s cheeks were rosy, clearly having run all the way there. Alex wondered how far away the Kent farm was from town.

“What d’you want, Clark?”

“The caves! The caves! Come with me and Petey!”

“Aw, Clark,” Alex muttered in disgust, even though craved the time outdoors, “I have to stay here. My father’s about to come home. Mother’s asleep. I can’t leave my house. I’ll get in trouble.” He couldn’t define what kind, thinking about Clark’s sensitive ears. Clark’s mouth twisted in disappointment, and the wind left his sails, making his little shoulders sag.

“Awwwwwww,” he groaned, scuffing his boot against the wood planks. “You can’t come? Honest?”

“Uh-uh,” Alex sighed, and his face was a mirror of Clark’s, one of commiseration and resignation until his friend suddenly brightened.

“Where’s your pa?”

“At the store. In the back with his books.”

“We live close to the caves. My pa can give you a ride home on the wagon. It won’t take long for us to get there, either.”

“Clark, it’s five miles away!” Alex wasn’t fond of walking that far, and he was often grateful that his father insisted on the coach as their way of getting around.

“It’ll be easy,” Clark assured him. “C’mon, Alex!” His voice was petulant, but his smile was winning. Clark was a stinker.

“You’re such a snot,” Alex muttered, but Clark’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Alex’s smile returned.

“Hey, Lex, what was that you were playing?”

“Beethoven.”

“What’s that?”

“Not a what. A who. He wrote music and he played piano.”

“Was he good at it?”

“I guess,” he replied simply. “My mother likes it.” Lillian _adored_ it.

“So are you coming?”

“Clark…my father…”

His father wasn’t home. His mother and brother safely ensconced upstairs. Dinner was ready on the stove…

_The caves._

They were the stuff of boys’ imaginations and more taboo than swearing. Alex’s father was a vocal supporter and patron of extending the railroad to run through town and increase the traffic of customers and revenue to his businesses. Smallville’s modest mining company riddled the surrounding outcropping of rock with dynamite and sheared open a new entrance to the caves. Luthor Holdings was already top bidder on the right to mine the unusual green emeralds discovered by sheer luck once the dust cleared.

Jason and Whitley speculated about it.

Clark was offering him an advantage over the two braggarts who made his life miserable.

“I need my coat. Wait here.”

 

~0~

Alex felt a bit more secure bundled in his wool coat with his cap pulled low over his face. He felt they would attract less attention with his characteristic fair, bare scalp hidden from view. It would be the first of a lifetime of covert acts Alexander Luthor would commit, and the only one he’d ever own up to.

Clark was quiet until they rounded a corner in the road, once the storefronts and houses were out of view.

“C’mon, this way!” he beckoned, leading them down a hill. Alex stumbled to keep up with him. Clark was agile and spry.

“You better not get us lost!” Alex hissed, but excitement thudded in his chest.

“I won’t,” he promised. “Here.” He led them to a butter-colored horse with a blonde mane.

“You brought a horse,” Alex tsked. “Clark, we’re gonna get into so much trouble! You can’t just hide a horse!”

“I did,” Clark argued proudly. “This is Biscuit. She likes me, see?” As if to prove him correct, the horse whickered and bowed her head to nose Clark. He giggled and stroked her muzzle affectionately.

“She might not like me,” Alex countered, eyeing the horse uncomfortably.

“Here,” Clark offered, reaching into his pocket and handing Alex something hard and cold.

Carrots.

“Give her one.” Alex inched forward.

“Uh…hello, Biscuit. H-here,” he stammered, gesturing with the food. The mare’s nostrils flared gently as she nosed and sniffed his hand. Gingerly she lipped his hand and snatched up one of the carrots, crunching and grinding them between scary teeth. Alex nearly jumped back until Clark stopped him.

“Don’t SCARE her, Lex!”

“She’s scaring me!” he protested, but gradually, the horse began to nose him again, looking for another treat.

“Pet her,” Clark prodded. “Give her another one. Like this, see?” He copied Clark’s act with the carrots and gently stroked the nose that was taking a peremptory journey around his face and coat.

She won him over, but lost interest in him once the snack was finished.

“Let’s go to the caves. Get on.”

“You can’t ride a horse!” Alex exclaimed. He was only six!

“Can, too! Pa taught me.” Clark had a natural affinity with animals, something he couldn’t easily explain to Alex, but he meant to take them on the trip he’d planned. He nodded to the stirrup and pommel. “Let me help you.”

Through some struggling, Alex climbed onto Biscuit’s saddle and sat dizzily from the higher height than he was accustomed to while Clark urged him to move back.

“Give me room, Alex!”

“Fine, already!” he grumped. Clark hoisted himself up using both the stirrup and Alex’s strong, cool hand. Clark was seated comfortably in the saddle in front of his friend and was content at the feel of the older boy’s bulk at his back, warmed by his wool coat. Clark made a clicking sound with his teeth and Biscuit turned herself toward the winding gravel road. Everything was fine while they rode slowly along, letting Alex find his seat in the bulky saddle, until Clark said “Let’s go faster!”

He kicked the horse’s sides lightly, and suddenly, they were trotting!

“Oh, no! CLARK! CLARRRRKKKK!!!”

“We have to get there!” he cried out over the sound of Biscuit’s clopping hooves. 

On the one hand, the horse could kill him.

On the other hand, his father would kill him anyway, the longer he stayed out late.

He suffered the bouncing, jolting stride of the horse, even when she decided to canter. He held on tightly to Clark while the younger boy guided the reins. The road wound through a heavily wooded thicket. Biscuit slowed down to avoid stumbling over exposed roots and large rocks. Sunlight dappled the ground through the branches overhead, and Alex saw pink and orange patches of sky, telling him they were running out of time despite their quick journey.

Unease warred with anticipation. He was dying to know what was in the caves, even as his stomach twisted at the thought of his father’s reaction to him being gone. Would he hit him again? With a belt? With his crop? Would he be angry at his mother?

Worse, would he send him away? Cold fear ran its fingers down his back.

They finally reached the rocky crags, stopping Biscuit near a tall oak. Clark insisted he help him tether her to its lowest branch, since Alex was tall enough to reach. The cave loomed large and dark, seeming to yawn open like a mouth of piercing teeth, waiting to swallow them up.

“You scared?” Clark inquired. His tone wasn’t mocking, and concern pinched his small face.

“No,” Alex scoffed. “I never get scared.” Considering his experience with the horse, he felt it better to just leave it at that. “Luthors never get scared,” he amended, as an afterthought.

“I don’t get scared, either!” Clark boasted, throwing out his chest. A snort of laughter burst from Alex’s lips.

“Sure. Sure you don’t.” Their argument lent them both bravado as they trekked toward the entrance and plodded through the brush.

“Do NOT.”

“Do TOO.”

The cave was slightly uphill; Clark hurried ahead on light feet and pulled Alex up by the hand, surprising him with the wiry strength he had.

His feet crunched over gravel and jagged stone as they made their way inside. The fading sunlight lit their way about fifteen feet of the way in. Alex ran his hand over the cool, rough stone. I don’t see what’s so great about it, he thought.

“D’you think Indians lived here?” Clark wondered aloud.

“Why?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged. “Just because. Someone drew on the walls.” Alex scowled curiously as he joined his friend.

“Where?”

“Here,” Clark pointed cheerfully. “They’re gonna get in trouble for writing on them,” he sniffed.

Alex suddenly wondered if _they_ were the ones looking for trouble. Clark was right. There _were_ pictures on the walls.

“What’s that one?” Clark whispered, pointing and tracing the chalky, bluish-white scrawl with his stubby finger.

“It looks like a big face.” His own hand crept up to follow Clark’s, not caring when their hands bumped. “And that one looks like a star.”

“Oooooo,” Clark murmured in awe. He shrugged closer to Alex to stave off the faint chill. Alex felt him shiver and huddled against him, sharing the warmth of his coat.

“You don’t have a jacket. That was dumb.”

“Was not.”

“You want to share my coat or not?”

Sheepishly he admitted, “Yes.”

“Then say it was dumb.” Clark’s sigh was heavy.

“Guess it was dumb.”

“Told you.” He didn’t take umbrage for it, choosing to huddle against him. His friend’s chest felt warm and solid against his cheek, and Alex had an overwhelming surge of protectiveness toward Clark. In a moment of weakness, he hugged him more snugly as they continued to study the drawings.

“Alex?”

“What, Clark?”

“Is your pa mean?” Alex scowled.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?” Alex asked impatiently.

“Because you get mad. When you say ‘my father,’ you look mad and mean.” Alex sobered, and his brows relaxed.

“I dunno,” he murmured. “He’s kind of mean, sometimes. We’re Luthors,” he offered as an explanation. “We have to do things different. Better.”

“Why?” Clark screwed up his face again in wonder.

“Because. Just because.” Alex honestly didn’t _know_ why. “He gets mad when I don’t do things well enough.”

“You can do some things better than me,” Clark decided. It was a humble attempt, but Alex smiled.

“No, I can’t,” he corrected him. His insides felt warm.

“Alex?”

“What?”

“Your heart sounds funny.” He released Clark and moved back in surprise.

“What d’you mean, funny?”

“It just does. It makes a funny noise.” Alex stared at him, scowling again as Clark explained “I can still hear it. It sounds like you just tripped and fell.” Alex searched for something to counter that wild statement.

“You can’t hear my heart,” he declared. His pulse raced.

“Can, too,” Clark insisted as he began to wander further into the cave. 

“Can, not.”

“Can, too. It just tripped again.” Clark was twenty feet ahead of him. Alex stared after him, incredulous. It _had_ tripped.

“We need to go back.”

“You wanted to see it,” Clark fussed. “I’m not done yet!”

“Your father will be mad,” Alex reminded him, picturing dire consequences if his strong-looking, stern pa got wind of their trip to the caves. Alex had to be responsible. Clark was a sturdy boy, but he had to look after him, just like he would look after Julian. It was his duty.

“My pa’s not mean,” he said simply, but Alex felt his face flush. He grew indignant.

“So what, then? Get in trouble if you want, Clark. I want to go home, so you have to come, too!”

“Do not!” Clark grinned back at him and ran. His laughter echoed off the cave walls.

“CLARK! DON’T!” he cried, trotting after him in a panic.

The cave’s interior was darker the deeper they ran. Alex was squinting in the near-blackness and gloom as he followed the sounds of Clark’s steps. “You’re gonna get in trouble, Clark!”

“Will not,” was his petulant reply. Alex was running his hand along the cave wall for support and balance. He stubbed his booted toe sharply and smothered a swear.

“LEX! You said a bad word!”

“Did not! CLARK! COME BACK!”

He felt moisture along the walls, and the air felt chillier and damp. Once again he feared that Clark would get too cold as he shrugged more deeply into his coat and cap. Just when he thought Clark’s taunts would work his last nerve and steer them wrong, a faint, glowing light permeated the darkness.

“CLARK! CLARK…oh!” His voice died in his throat as he followed the light into a cavern that was surprising broad and high. The walls were slicker and more damp here, gleaming in the faint glow from a source he couldn’t detect.

“Clark, look!” he cried out, then felt a strange foreboding as he was greeted by the echo of his own voice, and nothing else. “Clark? Where are you?”

His heart tripped again and his stomach twisted into a knot. “This isn’t funny,” he insisted. “Don’t hide from me, Clark! Clark!”

“Boo!” He nearly died of a heart attack as Clark launched his body at Alex’s waist. He took him down without even trying, knocking them both into the gravel.

“OOF!” It was like hitting a tree!

How did a boy Clark’s age get so strong?

“Scared you,” Clark goaded, green eyes dancing as he let him up, then guiltily extended his hand.

“That was mean,” Alex barked, shaking off Clark’s helping hands and dusting off his coat. “I’m telling your father!”

“Aw, Lex!”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“LEX!”

“Let’s go get Biscuit now and go home, and I might not tell.”

“Promise?”

“Only if we go now,” he sang over his shoulder. He heard Clark’s footsteps behind him for a moment, before they suddenly stopped. “C’mon, Clark, lets go before…Clark?”

He turned back to find his small body huddled and curled up in a tight ball. He was wheezing and gasping for air. His normally ruddy face was white as a sheet, and groans of pain clawed their way from his throat.

“CLARK!” Alex knelt down and shook his narrow shoulder. “Get up! Stop fooling, Clark! It’s not funny anymore.”

“Ow,” Clark moaned. “S’hurting me! Lex, it hurts!” 

Alex didn’t have a clue what could be hurting them. Clark didn’t look hurt; there were no scratches on him, and he wasn’t holding his limbs as though he’d broken anything. Alex knew what a broken arm felt like following one of Lionel’s rages. He tried to soothe his friend, but then he noticed something odd.

The rocks gleamed with small green stones. Emeralds, he thought. His father mentioned emeralds.

If he could bring one back, he might end up in his good graces. Perhaps everything would be all right.

“Help me,” Clark sobbed, piercing his reverie and his heart. He looked pitiful, crouched over like that. His green eyes were watery and luminous, and he was trying to be brave. He was shaking. He was cold, Alex realized. 

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “Here. It’s all right. Put this on.” He removed his coat, shivering at the immediate chill of the cavern, and he wrapped it around Clark’s huddled form. “Give me a minute.”

“I want my pa!” Clark whimpered. 

“I know. We’ll go home to your pa,” Alex huffed. His eyes wandered the cavern until he found what looked like a loose rock with a sharp edge. He kicked at it until a piece broke free. He used the jagged point to chip at one of the green nodules of rock.

A crusty piece broke free. It didn’t look like the emerald earrings his mother wore, but it certainly gleamed. Its colors shifted when he turned it this way and that. It was iridescent and cool. He dusted it off and tucked it into his pocket.

“Let’s go now.”

“Don’t feel good.” His pallor was slightly gray, and to Alex’s horror, long blue veins striated his delicate face.

“You look awful, Clark!” He tried to pull him to his feet, but Clark still moaned in pain. “Fine then, here!” He crouched down and levered the boy up a bit by his arms, then ducked down low enough to wrap them around his neck from behind. He rose up and carried Clark piggyback style, holding his limp legs under the knees. Alex was cold, but Clark felt warm against his back, once again sharing the wool coat.

He worried about how Clark was jerking and twitching against his back, and he heard his teeth chattering by his ear.

“Make it stop, Lex,” he pleaded in a low voice. “Please, tell my pa to make it stop.” He felt hot tears drip onto his neck and seep into his shirt. 

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Let’s get Biscuit, then we’ll go home.”

It seemed to take forever for Alex to plod out of the cave. He didn’t take time to wonder why Clark, who felt so solid and heavy against him when he collided with him before, felt so light and limp now. All he could do was fret.

Dusk had fallen when they finally saw light again. Biscuit nickered accusingly at him when he tried to hoist Clark up into the saddle first. “Hold still, horse!” he nagged. She sputtered and flicked her tail, but she allowed his fumbling attempts. Clark groaned and rubbed his face as he struggled to sit upright.

“Lex?” he whimpered.

“I’m coming, Clark,” he promised, and he hefted himself up by the stirrup. He no sooner seated himself behind Clark again when his body once again went limp. Alex caught him before he could slide free and hit the ground. “Oh, no! CLARK! Please don’t do this!”

Clark felt too limp and too light, and his skin was still far too pale. His hands were clammy as Alex took them and wrapped them along with his around the reins.

“Hyah!” he cried to Biscuit, kicking her sides. She eased them into an uneasy trot. Both boys felt sick the entire way out of the woods.

They reached the hill where Clark had led him before. Alex made out the glow of lanterns and saw several adults wandering the area, looking worried. One of the men turned and saw their horse heading their way and he pointed.

“There they are! JONATHAN! There’s your son!”

“CLARK!” bellowed Mr. Kent’s familiar voice. “CLARK! Oh, Good Lord!” He face was stricken and determined as he sprinted toward them, mindful of the skittish horse and her burdens. He reached up and grasped the reins, taking them from Alex. “Where have you two been? Do you know how late it is?”

“Mr. Kent,” he began. Alex’s mouth felt dry, and his lips quivered.

“Clark’s just a little boy, son, you’re older, and you know better! Where did you two go? Out in the dark like this?”

Alex swallowed a lump. “To the caves, sir. Clark thought it would be a good idea if we –“ Jonathan cut him off. His face was stony and grim. He gently collected his son from the horse, curious for a moment about the expensive wool coat wrapped around him. All he saw was Lionel Luthor’s son looking guilty and tears welling up in his slate blue eyes. His stomach lurched when he saw Clark’s poor color and felt his weak slump against his body.

“Pa!” he cried joyfully. He felt a tiny measure of relief when his slender arms wrapped around his neck.

“I’ll take you home, young man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I mean to speak to your father.” Alex stared at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap.

“Yes, sir.”

~0~

The wagon ride back into town was quiet. Alex gave up on trying to explain that Clark had fallen sick in the caves. Jonathan seated them apart, keeping Clark bundled beside him in a thick blanket while Alex sat in the back, once again wrapped in his coat. The lines had been drawn.

Clark periodically stared over his shoulder at him, and his face was full of anguish.

His mother’s front parlor was well lit as Mr. Kent peered inside the window. He caught Lillian’s eye just as she was hurrying past, looking frantic. She clapped her hands over her mouth and smothered a cry.

“Mother,” he moaned as Jonathan helped him from the wagon. Clark started to climb down from his perch. 

“Stay, son.” He beckoned for his friend, a burly man who rode Biscuit beside the wagon, to watch Clark for a moment as he strode onto the porch. “I want to speak with Mr. Luthor. Come along, Alex.”

“Yes, sir.” He dragged his feet as though he were ascending a gallows.

All of the joys of the day evaporated and left him aching and empty. Alex was filled with dread, and it grew worse when his mother opened the door. Her eyes were bleak and knowing when they fell upon him, seeing his dirt-streaked cheeks.

“Alexander,” she whispered, and he fell forward into her arms, burying his face in her neck.

“I didn’t mean to hurt Clark,” he whimpered. “I didn’t mean it, Mother, I swear.”

“Don’t ever swear, Alexander,” she scolded, but she adjusted her expression as she met Jonathan’s gaze. “Do come in.”

“I need to speak with Alex’s father.”

“Lionel is in the dining room,” she beckoned. Jonathan studied Lillian thoughtfully. She was nothing like Martha. Her skin was fair and creamy, and she wore her hair in an upswept Victorian style that left pin-curled tendrils falling softly around her face. Her dress was a deep, rich green that enhanced her eyes and sable hair. It had a nipped-in basque and pearl buttons, and the short train in the back was puffed, rustling gracefully as she walked. A pearl choker graced her slender neck.

“Who’s there, Lillian?” Lionel boomed. Jonathan watched Alex’s body tense, and he looked like he was about to tuck tail and run, but suddenly he straightened and preceded his mother into the room. She hovered protectively over him as though he were an errant chick.

The entire mood in the dining room became oppressive. Lionel eyed Jonathan as he stood from the Chippendale and extended his hand.

“We haven’t met.”

“Jonathan. Jonathan Kent. I live a ways out of town with my wife and my son Clark. He was with your son today.”

“I see.” He was staring at Alex all the while.

“I found them in the clearing outside the woods, near the caves. They were on my mare and both of them looked cold and scared. I think they gave themselves a fright with their foolish prank.”

“My son doesn’t play pranks.” Jonathan sighed.

“My son knows those caves are forbidden.”

“He rode out there on your horse,” Lionel pointed out smugly. “So how much does your son know?”

“Father…” Alex cut in.

“Alexander,” Lionel told him silkily, “might I remind you that children should be seen and not heard. Don’t say anything until I ask you, son.” Alex stood back. His mother busied herself with helping him out of his coat and hat. Once again, Alex felt exposed. Weak. The fragrance of his mother’s chicken soup had been appetizing before he left, but now it sickened him and made the air in the house feel heavy.

“I think the boys have learned from this,” Jonathan explained. “I intend to have a long talk with my own child and explain why what they did was wrong.”

“How diligent of you,” Lionel purred. Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “My son will never do anything of this nature again, so you won’t have to worry about any talk I have with him. Nor will it matter what you say to your boy, since Alexander will have nothing more to do with him.”

“The boys attend the same school, Lionel!” Lillian gasped. “Surely they will still see each other from time to time! Mr. Kent, we realized that this was all just a mistake! Your son persuaded Alex to join him in a bad idea and to go to those dangerous caves!”

“Lillian,” Lionel warned. “Take Alexander up to his room.” She was chastened.

“All right.” She said nothing of the fact that he hadn’t eaten yet.

Lillian’s steps were heavy as she followed her son to his room. She hovered over him reproachfully as he sat on the bed and removed his boots.

“I was so frightened when Julian and I found you gone, Alexander.” He felt small and ashamed. He just sat with his head bowed, and tears trickled down his cheeks. “You know how this kind of antic affects your father, and that it angers him. You know better, Alexander. I don’t know why you did such a thing.” She didn’t touch him, nor make any attempt to sit with him.

“We live a privileged life, Alexander. People have certain expectations of us, and this is the sort of incident that draws the wrong kind of attention. The people who live around us will see that farmer in his wagon approaching our house looking as though he has an issue with your father. People will talk. How long do you think it will take for someone to talk about how they found you at the caves?” She watched him fumble in his pocket. “Alexander?”

“Here,” he mumbled hoarsely. He wiped his face on his sleeve and handed her something small and hard.

She gazed down at the odd green stone curiously. “What’s this?”

“I want Father to have it. I found it.”

“In the cave?”

“It’s an emerald, isn’t it? One of the ones he wants to look for? There were lots of them, Mother.” His voice held shallow hope. She fingered the stone.

“We can take it to be assayed tomorrow, I supposed, but did you boys go to all that trouble for a stone?”

“No,” he said feebly. “We went because we just wanted to see the cave. Just to say we saw it.”

“So you did this to impress the other children at school.”

“I guess.” He’d never tell her about the jeers and taunts that he was a baby that he lived down every day. His heart was too soft, and his mother was too fragile.

Downstairs, Lionel was escorting Jonathan out the front door. He treated himself to a long look at Kent’s young son in the wagon. He was a pretty child, but he hardened himself against the imploring expression on his face.

“Stay away from my son,” Lionel ordered harshly. “I mean it, young man. You’re not welcome here.” He turned to Jonathan. “Rest assured, my son won’t bother you in the future or engage in any further, dangerous shenanigans with your boy again.”

“We’re understood, then,” Jonathan agreed, even though his eyes held sadness.

“Pa,” Clark cried. “Alex and me didn’t mean it! I promise! Alex! ALEX!”

“Let’s go home, son. Your mother’s worried about you.” He whistled for the horses and they were on their way, with Biscuit trotting after them.

Jonathan didn’t envy that man one bit. Amidst the trappings of wealth, his home held no love or tenderness, and he felt a pang at having to leave Alex there with his father as they rode back to the farm.


	4. Anguish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy strikes.

“Please, Father! Please stop,” Alex begged as he sagged to the floor. His arm was wrenched back in his father’s implacable grip, and he was weeping once more.

“Foolish!” he spat, whaling on his with the strap. His eyes held madness, and every trace of the smooth and stoic businessman was gone. “Unworthy, inconsiderate, mindless wretch!” He was careful to avoid his son’s face, but all staring into it did was enflame him further.

“LIONEL!” Lillian sobbed. “That’s enough! He’s heard you! He’s HEARD you!” Each time she tried to place herself between them, she was flung back. On her third try, his hand flew swiftly, connecting with her cheek. She spun back and jerked against the bureau. Her cheek stung and she tasted a drop of blood at her lip.

“I’ll decide when he’s had enough! I’m the master of this house! He’ll obey me!” WHAP! “You’ll obey me, Lillian, or I swear! I swear, Lillian!” He was possessed. Resentment flowed through his veins. “You’re a whore, and he’s a whore’s son! Worthless! Scum! You’re both scum!”

“Lionel,” she sobbed. “You don’t mean that.” Her voice was hollow. “You don’t mean that,” she chanted. “He’s our son. He’s our son!”

“Julian’s my true blood,” he grunted as he shoved Alex onto the bed. “Neither of you will ever humiliate me again. Your presence offends my sight, Alexander. Your mother is a weak-willed, lying whore, and that’s your legacy. It will hang over your head like a dark shadow for the rest of your life, and I wash my hands of you.”

“Lionel,” she whispered, stunned. “You’d curse your own son.”

“M’not…his son, Mother,” Alex grated through his teeth. “Never…be his son. Never be a…Luthor.” His voice sounded older and adamant. 

His eyes were solid ice, and his young jaw was set. In that instant, Lillian knew her little boy was gone.

Lionel was enraged. His features contorted into a black grimace as he stared his wife down.

“Look what you’ve brought forth, Lillian! Look at the weak wretch that you’ve coddled! You spawned him from weak seed,” he pronounced. 

“You never loved me like he did,” she murmured absently, as though she were talking to someone else. “I felt it when you proposed to me, Lionel. You can’t.”

“I can’t what?”

“You can’t love. Not truly. You try, Lionel,” she continued, letting her voice gather strength. She was ridiculously calm, even though her lip was swelling and she daubed at the blood with a lawn handkerchief. “It isn’t in you. It just isn’t in you, Lionel. That’s not how you were made. You’re strong and hard. And bright and cruel. But you don’t love.”

“You’d have me love a weak whore’s son, Lillian?”

“I’d have you love _your_ son, Lionel. You pledged to me that you’d raise him, husband. That you were a better man. You promised, and you don’t break your word. Ever.”

“Hmmmm. Bravo, Lillian.” His shoulders quaked with laughter. Alex glared up at him as he knelt by the bed sullenly, calculating his father’s next move. Lionel shook his head. “You’d invoke our wedding vows.”

“I’ve never looked at another man since we’ve been married, Lionel. And I gave you a son. I’ve done my duty as your wife.”

“And gladly, I’ll wager, Lillian. Not that it matters. You’re easily replaced.” Her cheeks flushed scarlet and tears welled in her eyes. “And supplemented.”

“So the rumors are true,” she offered quietly. “Your eyes have been wandering, after all.”

“No. My hands have been wandering. My eyes see everything they need to see, wife.”

“You don’t appreciate anything you’ve got!” she shrieked, done with civility. Something inside her snapped, and she crouched protectively beside her son, drawing his head down to her bosom. Alex clung to her, but he was shaking with anger. “You surround us with things while you lock us up in this house, like caged animals! And then you cast us aside like trash! If you can’t love us, Lionel…if you can’t treat us with human decency, you don’t deserve sons or a wife!”

She and Alex were both breathing harshly. He resembled Goliath, holding the strap like a sword at the ready.

“Never deign to tell me what I deserve, Lillian.”

She fought against crying out. When it was over, and she lay bent and cringing, it was her son who helped to cover her weeping back with the remains of her basque. Downstairs, Lionel finished his chicken soup and strode out of the house. 

 

~0~

Alex would have rather marched into Hades in his bare feet than show up at school.

A hush fell over the classroom as he took his place in the back. He hung his coat and cap over the peg and immersed himself in his arithmetic book. He felt Jason and Whitley’s eyes on him, and eventually Pete’s. Once they turned away, Mrs. Sullivan called roll. His voice sounded weak to his ears when he gave his name.

When she began writing their cursive lesson on the chalkboard, he saw Clark’s dark head pop up. Jewel-like eyes implored him and begged his attention.

“Turn around,” Alex mouthed at him. Clark’s chin jutted out at a stubborn angle until Mrs. Sullivan swooped down and rapped her ruler on Clark’s desk.

“You will give me your complete attention, Clark. That’s how we learn.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The rest of the lessons went on without further interruption, but Alex fumed.

Alex evaded Clark and Pete at lunchtime. On the way back inside, Alex paused to wash his hands at the water pump to free them of sticky jam and crumbs.

“Lex,” Clark said breathlessly as he ran up alongside him. “You didn’t come play ball!”

“I didn’t want to,” he shrugged. “You and Pete can go play ball by yourselves.” He ignored Clark’s hurt look.

“You got in trouble,” he blurted out.

“Of course I got in trouble. I told you, Clark. I knew we would.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I still got in trouble.”

“Pa was angry at me,” Clark shared. Alex watched him in interest. Clark looked genuinely ashamed.

“Did he whip you?”

“Pa never does. But he told me that I made him and Ma sad. He made me go to my room and stay there til he said I could come out. He wouldn’t let me play with Shelby or help him in the barn last night, and I went to bed without supper.” Clark hung his head and drew pictures in the gravel with the toe of his boot.

“If he didn’t whip you, then he wasn’t that mad. So you got me in trouble, and you didn’t get whipped. Go away, Clark.”

“Lex…!”

“Don’t call me that anymore! My name’s Alex!” He tore away, leaving Clark behind. “Just leave me alone!” Clark looked stricken. Pete sidled up to him and tugged on his sleeve, and the two of them wandered away until the bell rang.

 

~0~

Alex arrived at home after giving the coachman a perfunctory goodbye. 

He felt something wrong as soon as he walked into the house. There was no scent of dinner on the stove, and Julian wasn’t playing on the carpet in the sitting room with his mother.

“Mother?” he called softly as he went to set down his books and lunch pail.

He headed upstairs and searched for her, still feeling uncomfortable at how quiet the house was. Their cleaning woman had already come and gone; he smelled furniture wax and fresh flowers as he walked down the corridor and arrived at his mother’s bedroom door.

When he opened it, Julian was napping in his cradle. His mother looked up from her chore. A large carpet bag yawned open on the floor, and she was folding and packing piles of her underthings in it, along with some of Julian’s clothing. Alex recognized his own shirt atop the pile along with his woolen stockings.

“Hello, Alex,” she greeted calmly, smoothing her skirts with her palms. They were shaking.

“Mother,” he replied, watching Julian slumber. His small chest rose and fell, and his eyelids looked like flower petals. He sucked noisily on his thumb and made a soft whicker under his breath. 

“I need you to help me. Go downstairs. Prepare Julian a bottle for now, and several for the rest of the day. We’re taking a trip.” Alex’s mouth worked, but no sound would come out. “Last night changed things, Alexander.”

“Mother…”

“We’re leaving your father.” 

He was awestruck. “How?” He didn’t react beyond surprise. He longed to believe her. Ached to believe her, but it was a pipe dream.

She looked beautiful, eyes shining with hope and arms stretching out to him for a warm, gentle embrace. He inhaled her sweetness, but he still wallowed in doubt.

“We’re going to take a train. It will be a big adventure, Alex,” she described. “I have money left from my own family, Alex. I have a cousin in Bludhaven who owns a cottage for us to rent.”

“We can’t live with Grandmother?”

“No.” His mother’s voice hardened. “She doesn’t understand how complicated our lives are, Alex. She wouldn’t understand why we would want to leave.” She still held him as she knelt, taking his hands. “It will be the three of us for a while, Alex. I know…I may have disappointed you. Your father –“

“You’re my mother.” Alex emphasized it as though confirming that was all she needed to know of how he felt. His slim fingers crept up to gently stroke her cheek. It felt cool and smooth, and she leaned into his touch. There was still so much pain in his eyes, but now they held dim hope. She’d teach him how to smile again.

The next half hour was a blur. Everything was done in a hurry. Food was bundled into a basket. His mother fetched a small purse and filled it with several crumpled bills and coins. Her jewelry was wrapped carefully in a handkerchief and tucked deep into the carpet bag, along with a small Daguerrotype of Alex as a baby.

The coach was waiting for them minutes later. It was two-thirty; Lionel wasn’t due home until four. Alex donned his cap and coat, and he returned stares from the passing locals as he helped his mother into the car, climbing inside with Julian. He instinctively tucked his blanket around the baby more snugly before handing him to his mother. Julian yawned and gazed at him, rubbing his eyes with a tiny, chubby fist. Before he could fuss, Alex already had his bottle and coaxed the teat into his mouth. Lillian gave him a grateful look.

They were nearly gone when Alex heard a shout from down the city block.

“LEX! WAIT!” Fear clawed at him at the sound of Clark’s voice.

He couldn’t stop them. _He couldn’t._

“We have to go, Alexander!” she hissed. Julian puckered his face, sensing the change in his mother’s mood.

“In a moment, Mother, please!” He knocked on the door of the coach to let their driver know that he needed to get out.

Clark was out of breath, cheeks flushed and healthy looking, confusion written on his face.

“Where are you going? Are you leaving?”

“We have to.” Alex didn’t dissemble. “We’re going away.” Clark rocked back on his heels.

“Are you in trouble?” Alex wanted to harden himself against him, but the soulful look on Clark’s face pinned him.

He was so much like Julian, so fresh, innocent and trusting, and he admired Alex just as much.

“Not anymore, Clark. But I will be if I stay. Mother and I are going away.”

“Are you coming back?” Alex shook his head sadly.

“No. I can’t come back.”

“I don’t want you to go!” Clark insisted, hunching his shoulders and hugging himself. 

“It’s okay, Clark. I don’t want to stay.” He couldn’t come up with any words of comfort. “I’ll be with my mother. And Julian.”

“Will your pa be mad?” He hadn’t fooled Clark in that regard.

“Maybe.” 

“Alexander, stop dawdling!” his mother urged impatiently. He heard Julian fussing inside and desperately sought to end their talk.

“Look, Clark, I have to go. We have to hurry.”

“I want to be your friend,” Clark complained. “I don’t want you to go.”

“You can play ball with Pete.”

“Pete can’t catch!” he shot back. Alex felt a smile from nowhere bloom on his lips.

“You’re a little snot, Clark.” He clapped him loosely on the shoulder, as he’d seen Lionel do with anyone whom he was fond of. “I’m going now…”

“Goodbye, Lex!” he cried, launching himself at his friend and hugging him hard enough to bruise. The genuine emotion and affection he felt in that embrace radiated from Clark’s small frame, wrapping around Alex like a blanket.

He patted him, then pried himself loose. “Bye, Clark.” He climbed back into the coach, and his driver firmly slammed the door behind him. He tried but failed to ignore Clark’s forlorn looks as they pulled away from the walk.

They reached the open road within minutes. Alex watched the houses and stores retreat in the distance. The sun was still slightly high in the sky, and he felt a surge of hope.

~0~

Clark loved to run.

Jonathan and Martha warned him against it when he was within sight of the school or the town store where Jonathan bartered for goods with his butter and cheese. Clark could skip, walk, or trot, but running, giving himself his head and letting his legs carry him as far as they could was forbidden. No questions asked.

He felt the delicious burn of wind in his nostrils and lungs and the tingle in his muscles as he plowed through the brush. Trees swayed in his wake, pulled by the back draft he kicked up, and he trailed copious clouds of dust kicked up in the gravel.

All he wanted was to see where Lex was going. Then he could go home, and he wouldn’t get in trouble. He’d only he gone a few minutes. Once Clark knew where Lex was going, he could go see him again. It made sense to his six-year-old mind…

The coach grew bigger, closer in his line of vision. He wondered if Lex would see him if he ran past the window.

Alex was sullen and quiet as he stared out the window. Julian was clutching his cap and drooling on it, chewing on it with his new teeth.

A strange flash of movement caught his eye, and he blinked. He watched for it again.

There it was. Something blue. The movement flickered away, and he saw something dash behind the trees. He pressed his fingers to the glass as though trying to capture it for better inspection.

The coach suddenly jerked to a stop. Lillian stared at Alex in confusion before she shouted up toward the ceiling.

“Perry, what’s the matter? Why have we stopped now?”

“It’s the horse, ma’am,” he explained. “She’s picked up a stone in her shoe, I’m sure of it. We’ll be but a moment.”

“Please, hurry! We can’t miss the train. We just can’t!” Julian grasped a tendril of his mother’s hair and twined it around his hand, tugging on it until she snapped. “Stop that!”

“MOTHER!” Alex yelped. “Here, let me have him.”

“Never mind, Alex,” she scolded. “He’s fine. Go. Why don’t you help Perry with the shoe?”

“Yes, Mother.” Alex grunted as he pushed open the stiff door of the coach, letting himself out.

From his vantage point behind a tree, Clark watched Alex disembark, looking confused and annoyed. Clark wavered; he wanted to help his driver with the horse like he did with his pa.

“Here. Let me help,” Alex offered, coming alongside Perry and kneeling down in the dust.

“Here, now, boy, back off! I don’t need any help, go with with yer ma, where ya belong!” Perry was nearly belligerent. Alex scowled.

“Mother said to help. We need to hurry and get to the station. You need to fix the shoe!” Alex thought he was being reasonable about it all.

He suddenly heard hoofbeats and the thundering clack of wheels coming in the distance. Panic wracked his chest, and he stood breathless and transfixed as his father’s personal coach came into view. Dread made him feel sick, and he wiped suddenly clammy hands on his pants.

His lips moved automatically, and he grasped Perry’s shoulder, jerking it insistently. “We have to GO! Don’t you understand, Mister? We need to get to the station!” His eyes looked wild, and he stood fidgeting as the coach came closer, seeming in his mind’s eye to resemble the Devil’s carriage, carried along by the horsemen of the Apocalypse.

The Devil had nothing on Father.

“MOTHER! MOTHERRRRR!” He rounded the coach and tugged the door open, shouting inside, “Father’s coming! He’s COMING! LOOK!” Lillian’s breath seized, and her face went white.

“No,” she whispered. “Oh, heavens, no! Not here! Not now!” Her anguish was reflected on her son’s face, and his hopes were dashed to bits. His mother, so strong as they strode out of the fine house, was gone and a scared little girl facing punishment stood in her place.

Alex’s mind raced. If Lionel took them back into town, he’d hurt them. He’d hurt his mother again, and he might even direct his anger at the baby, even though Alex had never seen him mutter so much as one unkind word to little Julian.

His decision was made for him as he turned back to face her, and he stared long and hard at his baby brother. “I’ll protect you,” he mouthed silently, and like a little man, he stood fast outside the coach, feet spread wide and hands on his hips.

Lionel’s eyes were hard and calculating as he stared down his son, amusement twisting his mouth. He disembarked. “Perry?”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor?”

“Job well done.” He approached and clapped the man on the back before he handed him a small, thick white envelope that he promptly stuffed in his pocket. Realization dashed Alex like icy water.

Perry never intended for them to make it to the station. Lionel had him in his pocket. They’d been _ambushed._

“You can’t,” Alex chanted helplessly. “You can’t keep us, Father, I won’t let y-“ His words were cut off when his father shoved him, knocking him to the ground. He looked unappeased, shaking his head.

“How long must I teach you this lesson, Alexander? Never raise your voice to me. Ever.” His eyes beseeched Perry, but one thorough look at the man’s sunken cheeks and shabby clothing told him all he needed to know: Perry thought his own life was more desperate than a woman and two children’s, and he could be bought by a man like Lionel Luthor.

Clark watched in horror as his best friend was struck and kicked, writhing and crouching in the dust. _Alex!_ All he saw was his agony and helplessness. And eventually, the utter loss of hope. Big, strong Alex, beaten and lying on the ground. And his father stood menacingly over him, shouting horrible words that never left his own pa’s lips. They were two different men.

Fathers didn’t behave like Mr. Luthor was to Alex. Ever. Clark’s adamant belief in this tightened his small fists.

“Leave Alex ALONE!” he blurted out, abandoning his hiding place. “Or I’ll go tell my pa!” In the meantime, Clark knew he couldn’t stand by and watch Alex being hurt again. He saw his friend’s mother through the coach window, tears streaming down her cheeks and looking horrified at the sight of two young boys facing down her husband. Lionel personified evil.

There came a day of reckoning in every person’s life when they realized how short their existence truly was, how fragile and fleeting. Lillian knew it to be true that she wouldn’t escape Lionel except in death, and it loomed before her, fearsome, heart-stopping and black. She clutched Julian to her bosom.

“I’ve ruined us,” she whispered. “I’ve ruined us! God, forgive me!” Julian emitted a petulant wail. His mother was clutching him too tightly, and he wriggled to get free.

Perry watched his employer uncomfortably, realizing he couldn’t stand by and watch Lionel potentially hurt the second child, who’d appeared out of nowhere. He spent no time pondering it. “’Ey, there! Come away, boy, it’s none of yer business!”

“Leave him alone! You’re a BAD man! Stop hurting him! STOP!”

Perry and Lillian both never would have believed it if they hadn’t seen it. The young, dark-haired boy with the kind of angelic face that made women sigh in the street at its beauty threw himself between Lionel and Alex. He covered his friend with his small, wiry body and shoved Alex’s face beneath his chin protectively, sheltering him like a baby chick. Lionel never reacted fast enough to the boy’s speed to draw back his hand, yet a part of him took savage satisfaction, too, in teaching Kent’s impudent pup a lesson in manners…

Lionel bellowed in outrage at the fierce, all-consuming pain wracking his hand and traveling along every nerve ending in his arm while the bones shattered. His cry was resonant and terrible. He gaped in disbelief, and his body spasmed and bent nearly double as he cradled the broken limb.

He stumbled back roughly, unable to control his feet from the blunt impact, and he flew back against the darker of the two horses drawing Lillian’s coach. 

The horse sputtered and neighed fiercely, eyes wild as Lionel connected with its sturdy, sleek bulk. It skittered back, rearing up on his its hind legs. Its companion reacted sharply, dancing aside as a gut reaction and startling at the same rapid movement of Clark’s body, moving so fast that he blurred.

The back of Lionel’s head hit the ground with a faint crack as a hoof rammed into his shoulder like a hammer.

The horses continued to buck and rear. Clark’s heart raced, and he felt a throbbing in his temples.

“WAIT! DON’T!” he shouted. His throat felt raw with the effort. He let go of Alex, who fell back as Clark released him, and he kicked up dust in his wake as he lunged toward the errant horses. Perry never saw the young boy even move; he was focused on his employer’s ill pallor and the twisted, hideous angle of his hand.

The horses’ reactions to Clark’s sudden movement were more immediate. They skipped and shied to avoid the fleeting rush headed toward them, and they began to run.

All Alex heard were his mother’s shrill screams from inside…

The coach thundered away, and the reins of the first steed were torn away from the boy’s grasp before he could fully clutch them. He was strong enough, but still not quick enough, something that would plague him for the rest of his life…

The coach rocked and shook as it plummeted along the road.

“ALEEXXXXXX!” His mother’s face was pressed to the window, with her free hand banging against it instinctively as she searched for a way out. Julian’s keening cry reached Clark’s ears. His sharp hearing picked up myriad sounds that brought this scene of his life into sharp focus. Alex’s thundering pulse. Lionel’s weak yet steady heartbeat and his faint moan of pain. The baby’s plaintive cry at being jostled and held too tightly. And Alex’s choked intake of breath mingled with his sobs.

The horse caught a stone in its shoe. Perry’s false claim became prophesy.

The coach disconnected from the harness and tumbled down a slight incline, rolling head over end, over and over until it finally stopped. Its shell was a mangled heap of twisted metal and splintered wood and glass.


	5. Sins of My Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy leaves Smallville, alone.
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains triggers for child abuse and molestation.

“That’s a mighty tall tale you’re asking me to give credence to, Jon,” sighed Sheriff Ethan.

“I wouldn’t lie to you. I never have before, Eeth,” Jonathan replied as he rubbed his nape.

“I know that. That’s what makes this so hard. Your son’s a young boy. Children his age sometimes get carried away when they explain things to their parents. In light of the tragic nature of what Clark saw, we need to tread lightly. Lionel Luthor just lost his wife and baby. He’s injured and a broken man right now. His older son’s the only thing he has left.”

“I believe in my heart that he isn’t treating Alexander with the kind of respect that he should, if that’s true, Ethan. Have you met him?”

“Alex? Certainly. Once, when his father reported that his store had been vandalized. Polite boy. Odd looking at first; that bald head of his was something to behold. Lionel said the boy had a bout of scarlet fever.”

“He shied away the first time I met him. Some boys at school left him with a cut on his head. All I did was try to clean him up, and he backed up real quick, and went stiff as a board.” Jonathan eyed him levelly. “That’s not natural.” Sheriff Ethan made a thoughtful noise and leaned back in his chair.

“You believe Lionel Luthor’s been beating his son. It’s a serious accusation, Jon, and you won’t meet many men around here that don’t believe that if you spare the rod, you spoil the child.”

“I don’t doubt that his father’s money has spoiled him, but I had a bad feeling the day that I met him, and the night that I brought him home.”

“Aside from these ‘bad feelings’ you’ve had, and what Clark said he saw, Jon, I have to ask, what was your boy doing all the way out on Reeve Road?” Jonathan felt his hopes dash themselves to bits. “Perry saw the coach crash. He said it was a miracle both boys weren’t killed along with the woman and baby.” Ethan sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. “I just about fell apart when we dug them out from the wreck. “And all he could remember were the screams and sobs of a ruined boy; they haunted him in his sleep.

“Clark’s a changed boy. It’s like someone snuffed out his inner light. He’s not eating much and he’s been staying inside since it happened. Martha’s worried sick.”

“Those were beautiful flowers she provided for the burial, Jon. That wife of yours always knows the right thing to do at the right time.” The men shared a smile. “You’re a lucky man.”

“She enjoys reminding me of that everyday,” he chuckled.

“You know I might not be able to pursue this, Jon.” Jonathan’s faint smile died.

“I need to see with my own two eyes that the boy’s all right.”

“Don’t do anything so foolish as banging down Luthor’s door, Jon. I don’t want to have to arrest you.”

“I plan to knock. Martha wants to bring them a pot of stew.”

 

~0~

Alex huddled outside behind the outhouse, shivering from the night air. Goosebumps covered his bare calves; he’d run out of the house as soon as his father’s footsteps clumped across the porch. He’d just removed his stockings and was preparing for bed.

Lionel’s rich baritone drifted to Alex’s ears in the dark.

“ _Oh, Susannah, don’t you cry for me…_ ” Alex knew his father well enough to know that he’d been drinking and to make himself scarce.

“Please, God,” he whispered, praying fervently, “please make me big and strong. Please, Lord. Make me big and strong like Clark’s pa, so he won’t hurt me…” Lionel’s singing, remarkably on pitch, was a symptom of the night’s ills. Each word from his mouth in that powerful voice stabbed him and twisted his stomach even more, tempting him to vomit.

He’d drink shortly after he returned from the store of the station. His usual custom was to drink his cognac first, claiming it aided his digestion after dinner. He retained Perry’s plump wife as the housekeeper, offering them tenancy of the small cottage behind his property. She also minded Alex during Lionel’s excursions, but she departed once he returned for the night. Alice Perry was a discreet employee. She disregarded the stench of alcohol and sweet perfume that permeated his clothing. She marked young Alex’s sullen, introverted manner up to his recent loss.

There was something of his mother in him, a softness around the eyes and mouth when he smiled, which was seldom. He had the same slender hands and a similar arch to his brows. His face promised adult handsomeness, but it was a shame about his hair, truly…

The grass beneath him and the bitter wind chilled him, making his bare toes ache.

When he slept, he dreamt of twisted metal and dust. And blood. All he heard were screams.

Every night he woke to the sound of his father’s taunts, or his weeping.

Every night he pretended to sleep while his father made the edge of his bed dip with his weight and peeled back the covers.

He pretended not to hear his raspy whispers in the dark. He laid stock-still and bit his lip against its trembling as his father’s hands tugged at his nightclothes.

He tried not to listen as he told him how much like his mother he was. Soft. Weak. Only good for one thing.

Obedient.

His mother wasn’t big and strong. He’d hurt her, and Alex couldn’t do anything to stop his eyes filled with rage or his beating hands.

Alex suffered in near silence, letting his tears roll into his ears and the corners of his mouth if he was on his back, or soak into the pillow if he wasn’t. His father’s hands painted him in shame, and his flesh was tainted by the stink of cognac and whiskey when he was done. 

The worst offense happened right before Lionel retired to his own room.

He kissed him goodnight.

 

~0~

“I hope someone’s home,” Martha remarked the next morning. The skillet she carried was covered with a wide towel, and she had a basketful of bread slung from her arm by the handle. Jonathan knocked on the door with great trepidation, peering through the etched glass window.

“Ma?” Martha peered back at Clark, who looked clean-scrubbed and neatly combed despite his patched pants and the coat he threatened to outgrow.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are we bringing food?”

“It’s what you do for someone when they lost someone they care about.”

Clark pondered this until the door was carefully pulled open. Mrs. Perry greeted them with her hand on her round hip.

“Mr. Luthor isn’t awake yet.”

“We wanna see Alex,” Clark announced, nonplussed. “He’s sad, so we brought him some dinner,” he explained, as if this logic were infallible.

“I don’t think it would be wise if –“ Mrs. Perry was just relieving Martha of the bread basket when a somber voice carried to her ears from the kitchen doorway.

“Mr. Kent?”

“Hello, Alexander,” Martha greeted kindly. Her warm gray eyes traveled over him and passed no judgments. Her hair was less elegantly styled than Lillian’s had been, and her garb was practical and rough. She looked approachable and unassuming.

Alex longed to step into her arms and cry out his troubles. He held himself stoically instead, jutting his chin firmly and making himself resemble and ornery little old man.

“Are you gonna come back to school?” Clark inquired hopefully.

“No,” Alex admitted uncomfortably. “Why did you come?” He directed the question at all of them, but his eyes were pinned on Clark.

“Mr. Luthor doesn’t want visitors while he’s indisposed.” Mrs. Perry didn’t mention his hungover state.

“We won’t stay,” Martha assured her.

“Ma!” Clark protested loudly. “Mr. Luthor might hurt –“ Martha promptly shushed him. Her face was stern, and Mrs. Perry eyed her cautiously. The realization sunk in Alex’s stomach like a stone.

A flash of memory came unbidden to Alex in that moment. Clark crying his name. The feel of his short, sturdy arms wrapping around his chest and knocking him to the ground. Dust. Clouds of it from the impact with the gravel.

His eyes riveted themselves on Clark. Alex’s lips moved.

“I want to go outside and play with Clark,” he exclaimed. Martha’s smile was surprised.

“Yes, you may, if it’s all right,” she offered. Mrs. Perry nodded, tight-lipped.

The boys sauntered off. They strode down the walk toward the schoolyard, bundled in heavy coats and mittens. Alex seldom felt the cold anymore, having become used to his nightly treks outside to escape Lionel’s wrath and intrusive hands. 

They threw a baseball evenly through the air, almost in an unbreakable rhythm. Alex was left-handed; Clark threw with his right and caught with his left.

“You’re going away again,” Clark said, breaking the silence between them after a few minutes.

“Uh-huh.”

“Where, Lex?” The ball landed in Alex’s palm with a sharp slap.

“A school in Metropolis City. I’ll live there. Father says it’s the best in the state,” Alex offered, as though that was all Clark needed to know. He puffed out his chest and added “It costs a lot of money, and he said that boys from the best families will be there with me.”

“I won’t,” Clark argued, “and I have the best family, too.”

“He means important families. With money,” Alex corrected him, but he secretly agreed with Clark. “Your mother’s pretty.”

“Yeah,” Clark agreed.

“You don’t look like her, though.”

“You don’t look like your pa, either,” Clark pointed out. Both boys mulled his as the ball went flying back and forth.

“I don’t want to look like my father. Ever. I don’t want to be anything like him.”

“Because he gets mad?”

“Sometimes.” He couldn’t tell Clark too much. Then he remembered why he brought Clark out with him, and he became grim. “Hey, Clark?”

“Yeah?” Clark held the ball stiffly in his hand, fingering the lacings thoughtfully before letting it go.

“I saw you. I saw you come out of the bushes that day.” Clark didn’t need to know which day that was. “I felt you knock me down.” Clark had just raised his hands to catch the ball again, but he let them fall slack instead. A dark cloud of sadness engulfed his beautiful face, and he bowed it miserably. “Clark? Hey, Clark?”

“M’sorry, Lex,” he murmured, and Alex saw his narrow shoulders heave.”M’so sorry. I’m not big enough.” Alex chucked the ball onto the ground, letting it roll into the thick grass. “H-he hit you. Your pa was being real mean and you were crying, and-and I wanted to make him stop, Lex! He scared me.” Alex closed the gap between them. His face was livid, yet his eyes were full of nothing but pain.

“I didn’t need you, Clark! You should’ve minded your business! If…if you hadn’t been there, maybe I could’ve saved my mother! You knocked me down! I was going to help her get out of the coach!” Alex’s face was screwed up with pent-up rage. “I’m bigger than you, Clark! I could’ve saved her! Then she wouldn’t be dead! I’d have my brother and my mother here, instead of my father! We were going away. We were supposed to catch the train…” His voice lost its strength, and to his shame, fat, hot tears were rolling down his face. Clark absorbed his grief, and he dashed away the beginnings of his own tears before they could fall, sopping them up with his rough wool mittens.

“B-but I t-tried, L-Lex,” Clark stammered on a sob. “I tried to stop the horses, too! But I couldn’t. I wasn’t big enough. I couldn’t reach.” The reins were too high.

Alex’s chest heaved and he felt dizzy with grief. “Why, Clark? Why did you have to come? Why…” Alex’s hands balled themselves into fists, and he struck his own brow as if trying to beat away the memories. “Why did you come? Why didn’t you leave me alone? Maybe…maybe I’d just be dead, and it would be okay…M-mother and Julian would be here, and I’d be dead…!” Clark’s face was bleak and shocked; he shook his head and his lips twisted up, preparing to sob. Alex collapsed in the grass and bowed his hand into his fists.

“M’sorry,” Clark wept, snuffling back mucus and moving away. 

“Don’t!” Alex shouted. “Don’t leave, Clark! Don’t you leave me!” Clark stared at him in confusion, his bottle green eyes beseeching him to explain himself. “Everyone leaves. Everyone leaves me.” There was real fear in Alex’s voice, and his insistence changed to desperation for Clark to remain. He couldn’t do it. Alex couldn’t push away his one true friend, not when no one else had ever cared that much.

“You scared me,” Clark told him softly, sniffling. Alex attempted to catch his breath. His face was red and blotchy with tears.

“M’sorry,” he grated out, wiping his own face. “M’just so mad. My mother’s gone. I have no brother, and my father’s mean. He’s mean, and he hates me. Everyone hates me!”

“I don’t, Lex,” Clark cried. He walked past Alex for a moment, making him panic that he was going to leave again, but Clark merely bent down and retrieved the ball. He returned to his friend and handed it to him. “I don’t hate you.”

“I’m not big enough. Or strong enough.”

“Me either, Alex.” It was a sterling moment in their friendship, and the gravity of it didn’t escape them. Alex gingerly took the ball and Clark reached down to help him stand up. Slate blue eyes stared into green.

“M’sorry.”

“S’okay.”

Clark occasionally bumped up against Alex on their walk home, as if assuring him that he was still there. Alex occasionally bumped him back. Once in a while, they would smile.

They reached the Luthor house just as Jonathan was explaining that he wanted to go find the boys so they could leave them in peace. Mrs. Perry looked relieved when they wandered into sight. Martha looked concerned when she saw the dim remainder of tear tracks on both of their faces, but she held her tongue.

“Alex,” she said, approaching him, “here. I’d like you to have something.” She tucked a folded piece of paper into his hand. “Put it somewhere safe.”

“What is it?”

“Our post number. Jonathan, Clark and I would like it very much if you wrote us the occasional letter.”

“I know how to write letters already,” Alex boasted, and some of his pride returned. “Can I write them to Clark?”

“Yes, you may,” she nodded. “Alex, Mrs. Perry tells me you’ll be leaving in two days. Is it all right if I have a hug?” He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked his permission for such a thing.

His embrace was fierce and desperate, so much hunger for love evident in the low groan of need he emitted at the contact. Behind them, Clark looked slightly envious, but he felt that somehow, his mother had done the right thing. She always did.

 

~0~

Lionel and Alex stood soberly at the station on the platform two brisk mornings later. The tip of Alex’s nose was red from the cold, and he felt the drafts sneak up under his hat and chilling his nape. They both wore somber clothing and expensive coats; Alex was dressed in the same brown suit his mother had been so proud of on his first day of school.

“Perry will be here shortly,” Lionel informed him as they waited. He smoked his pipe idly to busy himself. Alex silently tolerated the acrid, sweet smoke and was thankful that he hadn’t eaten much of the housekeeper’s breakfast before he left the table. That which he did was setting like a stone in his gut. She packed him a basket of hearty food items that he’d share with her husband when he accompanied him to the school.

Alex said nothing when his father told him his itinerary and who his traveling guardian would be. He was screaming inside. It was twisted irony.

Perry showed up looking out of breath and haggard. Lionel stared at him impatiently as he made his excuses until he held up his hand for him to be silent.

“I want a full report. Don’t stay overlong,” he advised. “I’ll be receiving regular telegrams about your progress, Alexander. I expect that you won’t disappoint me.”

“No, Father.” His tone was diligent and stiff. Lionel’s answering smile was satisfied. He leaned forward and kissed his temple. Alex longed to scrub his face until it stung. He knew it was for appearances, and perhaps to mark him with one final humiliation.

~0~

The coach that brought him to the academy wasn’t as well-appointed as any of his father’s, but he still arrived in reputable style. Alex’s nose was itching from the dust stirred up by their ride and from the myriad odors of the train that brought them to the station. His stomach was growling; he’d eaten scarcely, choosing an apple and a slice of bread with butter that Perry’s wife packed, since watching the man eat sickened him.

The grounds of the academy were surprisingly well kept. It consisted of three buildings. The largest one was the school itself; on the left were the boys’ dormitories, and the left included the library and the dining hall. When Alex squinted, he saw what looked like stables less than a mile away. Unbidden the memory came back to him of riding on the back of Mr. Kent’s horse with Clark, the younger boy’s warm form cradled against him protectively. Alex’s hands were fisted in his lap with anxiety and resignation.

He hated it there already.

Perry led him through the courtyard, clutching a small, folded scrap of paper. “Belle-Reeve Hall,” he muttered under his breath. “This must be the place. ‘Ere, now, Alex, let’s find someone to settle you in.” He tugged Alex along by the arm until they entered the building through a heavy oak door. He slapped a smile on his face and relaxed his grip, shifting it to his shoulder, assuming the guise of a protective guardian. Alex wanted to shy his way out from under him, but he held his calm mask and his tongue.

The woman who approached was tall, pencil-slim, and wore a severe black dress that was devoid of flounces, only having puffed sleeves and a short train that bowed to fashion. Her hair was done up in a soft upsweep, and it shone sable brown in the dim light of the hall. Her features were sharp, and she appraised Alex through her narrow reading glasses as she approached. She eyed his cap curiously, and his cheeks burned with frustration.

Please, don’t let it happen again.

“Good afternoon. I’m Miss Hart. Our headmaster asked that I greet you while he attends a meeting. You must be Alexander.” She was dead-set on ignoring Perry while she assessed Alex, taking in his strengths and faults with her eyes. She all but pried him free of his escort, clucking under her tongue. Solicitously she reached for his jacket, straightening his cuff and smoothing it to rid it of the dust from the road. “We don’t wear our hats inside, Alexander.”

“Please, ma’am…may I wear it just a little longer?” Alex heard a scuffling of several sets of feet from within a nearby classroom. It was well after noon, and he already smelled the aroma of food drifting over from the dining hall on the way over. 

“Today. But expect no such privilege for the duration of your stay here, Alexander,” she warned crisply, but her eyes weren’t cruel. Alex was still unsettled and uncomfortable, feeling itchy and strained in his suit.

“Here,” Perry offered, shoving the paper at her. “It’s from the boy’s father.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “What kept Mr. Luthor from accompanying his son?”

“Business. He’s an important man with important things to take care of,” he huffed impudently, daring her to argue. He didn’t have to justify himself or his employer to a woman. She unfolded the scrap of paper and skimmed it, and her grip on Alexander tightened imperceptibly. He craved a glimpse of the note, wondering what it said. About him.

“I see.” She folded the note and met Perry’s eyes. “I think we have things squared away now, Mr…?”

“Perry,” he said proudly.

“All right then. Fetch his things. I’ll show you where to put them.” Perry made a face at her dismissal, but he complied. Alex felt uneasy, being left alone in her presence.

“Alexander, we have some matters to take care of before you begin your stay here and attend this school.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, Miss Hart,” he corrected her. She released him and stood back with a sigh. “Make sure you address all members of the school’s staff by their correct name and title, Alexander. Whatever your custom was at your previous school and home is not welcome here.”

“No, Miss Hart.” She bade him to sit in a chair against the wall, adjacent to the classroom. Alex would later find that it was where children went to wait to be chastised or for punishment. He would spend lots of time in that chair.

Perry hurried back inside, hauling an enormous trunk with brass clasps and a heavy lock. 

“You’ll need to follow me with that,” she reminded him. Alex felt a frisson of warmth in his gut at Perry’s fresh scowl. Alex dutifully fell in step behind both adults as they made their way through the courtyard, toward the boys’ dorms.

“I expect that you will find your way around easily enough, very soon, Alexander,” Miss Hart informed him. Her tone dared him to argue. He didn’t take the bait.

“Yes, Miss Hart.”

Perry struggled his way into the room with the trunk, dumping it unceremoniously inside the threshold of the door. It was an airy room with a large window overlooking the grounds.

It wasn’t a private room. Alex peered at the second bed, made up neat as a pin. The only item out of place was a green wool cap resting on the pillow.

“I will come to collect you shortly, Alexander. You will be introduced to the rest of the students once the meal is served.” Alex wore a stony look and averted his eyes, staring at his shoes. Miss Hart cocked her brow, curious. “Are you all right, Alexander?”

“I’m fine,” he almost snapped before remembering himself. “I…I’m all right, Miss Hart. Thank you.” Perry drew himself up and rested his hands over his belt, his face full of silent warning. 

“Your father expects that you’ll behave yerself,” he reminded him. “All right, then. I’m off.” That was it. He didn’t even offer him an awkward handshake or well wishes. “Ma’am,” he nodded to Miss Hart. She smothered a sigh and nodded back before he took his leave.

The muscles in Alex’s neck and shoulders relaxed by small increments once Miss Hart, too, took her leave, leaving him alone in the tiny dormitory. He crossed the room and took a long, greedy look outside. The grounds were vast. There was also an enormous field that looked perfect to play ball.

“Clark would like it here,” he murmured, stroking the glass pane with his thumb. He leaned his forehead against its cool surface and closed his eyes. He was so tired…

“I miss you, Mother,” he whispered. “I’ll make you proud.” Alex returned his attention to his trunk, wondering where he would put his clothes. There were two tall, narrow armoires. He squatted down and pried open the trunk’s latch, nearly catching his finger in the process. He pawed and sifted through its contents, piling his drawers, shirts and stockings aside.

He found what he was looking for, and he clutched the lawn handkerchief, folded up around something small and hard. He untied it and held up the iridescent green emerald for inspection, checking to make sure it survived his journey. It was his talisman, and one of the only things that Lionel hadn’t managed to take away from him.

That night in the cave changed everything. Alex couldn’t describe how, only that his father released whatever qualm he had about keeping his mother’s indiscretion a secret any longer. The tenuous thread between himself and Lionel that involved any form of filial respect disintegrated. He clung to the bright parts of that day like a lift raft. Clark’s grinning face through his window. Explaining what an adagio was to a willing audience. The cave paintings. Riding on the back of a horse for the first time. The feel of Biscuit’s rolling gait beneath him while Clark held onto him, making him feel protective and strong. Alex didn’t realize how much he needed that, how vital it was to him as a person. To be needed. 

And now, Lillian and Julian were _gone_.

He heard thudding footsteps outside the door. Alex nearly jumped out of his skin and frantically scrambled to return the stone to its hiding place. He had just slammed the trunk shut as the door swung open, letting in a rush of cool air from the hall. Alex swallowed roughly and straightened up as a tall, blond-haired boy strode inside while guffawing over his shoulder to someone outside.

“You hit like a girl!” he crowed, returning a jeer as he tripped inside. Alex watched as he caught a ball that someone winged him and heard the sharp smack of it against his palm. He was nonplussed, whipping it back to a chorus of chuckles. “Save me a seat…” His voice died as his eyes landed on Alex. 

Alex nodded stiffly at him and stood up straight. He was still wearing his cap, which Miss Hart had given him permission to wear until he reached the dining hall for the afternoon meal.

“Who’re you?” asked the newcomer, eyeing him up and down boldly as he leaned against the desk, folding his arms over his chest. He wore the school’s black uniform of black knickers and dark wool stockings and a gray jacket, not unlike the brown one Alex wore, but it also included a snug vest. Hard, black leather shoes shod his feet, slightly scuffed from the wear and tear of being outdoors. Lionel and Lillian never would have tolerated that, Alex mused.

The boy reminded Alex instantly of Whitney, and he blanched slightly at the comparison. Same haughty demeanor and intrusive eyes. His skin was faintly tanned, yet he managed to avoid freckles. Wheat blond hair was trimmed short and neat, but a lock of it fell over his brow. He had a habit of blowing it back off his forehead when he was exasperated, one of many idiosyncrasies Alex would come to know about his roommate as time went on.

Coffee brown eyes held intelligence and candor. They continued to flit over him and his trunk.

“I’m Alex,” he offered.

“Alex?” he huffed. “That’s all?”

“Alex Luthor,” he clarified.

“Bet you go by Alexander,” he went on.

“Yeah. Sometimes.” 

“Alexander’s a sissy name,” he jeered dismissively. Alex felt an ugly flush creep up his cheeks. “What’s wrong with your head?”

“What d’you mean?”

“That hat…it looks too big on your head!” he laughed, pointing without tact.

“There’s nothing wrong with my head, cretin,” Alex sneered back. “There’s just something wrong with your eyes!” The boy looked surprised for a moment, then regained his position.

“What kind of word is ‘cretin,’ Luthor?”

“It means you don’t know what you’re talking about, and you don’t care how stupid you sound,” Alex informed him. He knew he was getting off on the wrong foot.

It just felt too good to argue with someone without having to worry about being struck down. Alex reveled in it.

“Big hat,” his antagonist shrugged.

“Pea brain.” Their door swished open again, and a small red-haired boy popped his head inside.

“Olly, c’mon!” So, Alex thought, his name’s Oliver.

“Who’s he?”

“A sissy,” Oliver muttered, daring Alex to make rebuttal.

“I’m a Luthor,” Alex corrected him, leveling both of them with a smug look. “That’s all you need to know.”


	6. Learning Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and Clark adjust to life without each other. Secrets are revealed.

**Several months later:**

Alex was bruised, and his lower lip pulsed from a cut that burned as the tissue swelled and purpled.

But he was satisfied. Oliver was seated the hallway from him in a chair that was just as hard and uncomfortable. The two of them shared a glare that would melt butter.

He was in just as bad a shape. The orbit of his eye was puffy and bruised, and the lapel of his jacket was torn. Both of the boys’ garments were heavily soiled from tumbling over the ball field during their latest skirmish.

Miss Hart exited the headmaster’s office, sighing as she took in their bedraggled appearance.

“Both of you, please come in here,” she ordered in clipped tones. She swept aside and beckoned them in through the door. They trudged inside as though greeting the executioner. They stood like wooden dolls before the headmaster’s desk and waited for several long seconds, only sparing each other a short, baleful glance.

_It’s all your fault._

“I have to tell you both, I am very disappointed in you. Your parents will be contacted, and this will be dealt with swiftly and severely. I hope I’m making myself understood?” He awaited their reply with steely gray eyes.

“Yes, Mr. White,” Alex replied, glad to have done so first.

“I understand, Mr. White,” Oliver piped up, not to be outdone.

“I’m unconvinced that you do, Mr. Queen,” he tsked dryly as he adjusted his spectacles. “Aside from a letter sent home to your families, you will be subject to five demerits each. For each of those demerits, you will report one day to the chore section I have chosen, promptly, at risk of suspension or expulsion from this school.” Alex quailed and stared down at the floor until Mr. White took up his ruler and gave his desk a sharp whack to get his attention. Even Oliver jumped.

“You will pay attention whenever any adult or staff member of this school addresses you, Alexander!” Oliver smothered a snigger. The headmaster wasn’t finished.

“Oliver, you will report to the dining hall’s service entrance each day after morning prayers to help serve the meal. You will obey whatever directions you are given, and I will receive a report of your behavior while you are there.” Alex bit the inside of his lip at the vision of Oliver draped in the long white apron that many of the older students wore when they worked off similar punishment.

“Since you two boys have so much difficulty getting along, Alexander, you will be separated during the course of your punishment, even though you currently share a quarters. There will be no tolerance for fighting at this academy, and I expect you both to comport yourselves as proud students and respect each other. I don’t know how you behaved where you grew up prior to coming here, Alexander, but your behavior leaves much to be desired. Since you insist on such beastly behavior, you will work outside among the beasts. Report to the stable each day at two in the afternoon.” Alex’s reaction was mixed.

He’d be outside, away from the stifling confines of his room, and away from Oliver.

But he’d be working with horses. _Horses._ He swallowed back dread.

Miss Hart collected them and escorted them back to their quarters. The rest of the students had retired to their rooms for study hour already, so the halls were empty.

Miss Hart held Alex back a moment and shooed Oliver inside, beckoning to him to remain. She led him away from the door a few paces and reached into the pocket of her long pinafore. She handed him a slightly crumpled envelope, scrawled in slightly childish print. Delight bubbled in Alex’s stomach.

Clark had written!

He suppressed his smile, but Miss Hart allowed him the simple pleasure, for the moment.

“Your privileges for free time have been docked today, Alex,” she warned him, “so any correspondence in kind to reply will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Yes, Miss Hart.” The letter seemed to burn a hole in his hand. “May…may I read it now, please?”

“Go ahead. But you won’t neglect your studies, Alex.” Despite the school’s insistence on proper names and titles, Miss Hart occasionally made concession to using the boy’s favored nickname when no one else was in earshot. The boy was bright and a diligent student in the classroom; despite his occasional haughty air, he was also inclined to tutor younger students, even if his methods weren’t ideal. They regarded him with curiosity and awe, despite the older students reviling him.

She couldn’t be his friend, but she could keep an eye out for him. She took her leave of them once Alex was behind closed doors.

Oliver sat disgruntled and pondering his mathematics text. He scowled when Alex sat at his own desk and opened the letter. “What’d you get in the mail, Big Head?”

“Nothing, Pea Brain.” Alex decided to ignore him.

Oliver peered over at the envelope as Alex scanned the contents. “Looks like a baby wrote it,” he sneered. “You’re a baby, anyway, Alex.” Alex wasn’t listening. He had already retreated into his own little world that included baseball, caves and Clark.

_Dear Lex,_

_My ma is helping me write this letter, but I told her she can’t read it. Only friends can read it, and you are my friend._

_I miss you, and so does Biscuit. Shelby does not miss you yet, because you did not meet Shelby. But he would miss you if he did._

_I helped my pa with the hay today, and we patched a hole in the barn roof. I like being up on the roof. It feels like flying in the sky. I don’t know how I know that, but I know._

_Pete and I play ball. Lana tries, but she still can’t catch. All she does is make eyes at Whitney. My pa calls that making cow eyes, even though Lana is not a cow. All Lana and Chloe do is tell secrets, anyway. They are just girls._

_I heard a piano yesterday when Pa and I came to town. He said we could not go inside, because children were not allowed, and the grownups were drinking whiskey. But I heard a piano. They did not play what you played. I like what you played best. Does your big school have a piano? Do you get to ride horses?_

_I have to go now. I have chores with Pa. Then Ma is making dinner. When you come back, you can have some, too._

_Your friend, Clark_

Alex’s slight smile widened into a grin by the time he was finished. He reread it twice before folding it and tucking it into his desk drawer, joining two others Clark had sent so far.

There was never any correspondence from his father, which suited him just fine.

“What are you smiling about, freak?” Oliver accused.

“Nothing you need to know,” he shrugged as he dug out his grammar text. Oliver shot him sour looks for the rest of the afternoon.

 

**Two years later:**

Alex’s shoulders burned from his exertions, but he was relieved that he was almost finished. He blithely shoveled the last of the manure-riddled hay from the stall and propped the pitchfork back in its corner. He was drenched in sweat and in the earthy stench of the barn, but he didn’t mind. The huge bay horse whinnied at him and flicked his tail.

He approached the stall and dug in his pockets for the broken lump of raw carrot and offered it to Duke, chuckling at the ticklish feel of the horse’s lips searching his palm.

Who would have known Alex would grow to like horses?

It wasn’t like having a pet; Duke was more of a confidante. The most that he did on any given day was nose and push at him, nicker and swish his tail during their “talks,” but Duke offered him freedom and quiet, something that was in short supply in the schoolhouse.

He ascended the hay loft and picked out his favorite bale as a makeshift seat, leaning back and opening the latest letter. They were becoming slightly more frequent. Mrs. Kent’s neat script had been replaced by Clark’s younger, rougher scrawl, but he was getting better.

_Dear Alex,_

_I wish you were here yesterday at school. Whitney and Jason got into a fight after Jason pushed Lana into a puddle and got mud all over her dress. Jason has a fat lip. He looks funny now._

_Pete and I play ball a lot. We also went swimming at Reeve pond and went hunting for frogs in the creek. Pete stepped into some leeches, and we had to run to his ma to have her pull them off. Pete was scared. I wasn’t. He cried a little, but he said not to tell you that._

_I like working with Pa in the barn. Pa tells me stories sometimes, really good ones._

_I saw your pa two days ago. His hand still looks like it hurts him sometimes. He smiled at me. My pa didn’t smile at him, though. I guess he can’t hurt you anymore. I’m glad._

_Pa won’t let me go to the caves after I got sick the last time. I just want to see the pictures again._

_Your pa sent some men into the caves to find more of those green rocks. My pa says they are valuable. They just look like green rocks._

_Your friend, Clark_

Alex removed his dirty smock and hung it on the peg. He approached the stable hand and showed him his work, receiving a nod of agreement that he’d done a proper job before he was dismissed.

Alex’s clothing stuck to him; he longed for a swim. He trekked up the winding path to the creek, letting the midsummer sun beat down on his bare scalp. His letter from Clark was tucked into his cap, and he whistled his mother’s favorite waltz as he walked.

Sometimes he still heard her screams in his sleep. He would wake every now and again to Oliver’s grouchy, groggy complaints that he made too much noise and to stop being such a baby. Alex never spoke a word about his mother and brother. He kept a Daguerrotype of them tucked into his trunk, unwilling to keep it within Oliver’s sight. It was too precious.

He arrived at the creek. The wind shifted, and he already felt cooler the closer he came to its banks and the generous shade. Alex heard voices and splashing through the birch trees; unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.

“Blast,” he muttered. The benefits still outweighed the risks. He was going to swim. Period.

He shucked his boots and vest, laying them aside on a large rock. His shirt had been protected from the worst of his labors by the smock, but it still clung to his sweat. He worked off his knickers, stockings and shoes, enjoying the exquisite feeling of cool air against his bare skin. His bare toes dug into the moss and mud on his way toward the creek, which nearly felt decadent after spending the previous few hours in uniform, buttoned up to the teeth.

He entered the clearing and was glad for the moment that his peers hadn’t noticed him yet. They appeared to be involved in a game of tag, of sorts.

It looked fun. Lots of fun. Alex squelched the urge to ask them to include him.

He saw Oliver hoisting Roy over his shoulders and chucking him back into the water, which swallowed the younger boy’s shrieks. Like Alex, all of the boys swam in their drawers and nothing else, bordering on indecency. The thin cotton would dry quickly enough in the sun, allowing an easy change back into school clothes in time for the evening meal.

At twelve, Alex was tall and slender for his age, and was developing a hint of sleek muscle tone that was fast replacing his baby fat. He already knew how to swim, one of the only things his father had shared with him during happier times, even though he’d taken some of the joy out of it by stating “You won’t disappoint me. Never tell me you can’t, Alex” when he professed a fear of the water. His skin was slightly tanned, bringing out a spray of freckles on his back and shoulders, and a few more on his face. His baldness still lent him an air of maturity beyond his years when adults saw him for the first time, but it was the intensity of his face that made them stare the longest. His slate blue eyes had seen too much. He walked quickly wherever he went, with an economy of movement; Alex never lingered.

He waded into the shallows of the creek, getting used to the tepid water.

SPLOOSH!

Alex bellowed at the rush of water crashing over him and the sudden pull of someone emerging behind him. He no sooner recovered from the initial onslaught than another wave of water landed in his eyes and smacked him in the ear. He sputtered and choked as the attack kept on coming. He heard Roy’s high-pitched laugh.

“Got ‘im, Olly!”

“Whatsamatter, baby? Can’t swim?” he heard Oliver crow. He was being overwhelmed. He could barely see for the water being splashed in his eyes and he was losing momentum as he tried to splash back.

Alex took a different tack and ducked underwater, holding his breath. The water was clear enough. He saw that there were actually five boys surrounding him now.

“Where did he go?” Roy inquired. The boys stopped splashing once they realized their target disappeared. Roy’s dark red hair was slick as a seal’s and dripping into little ringlets, almost making him resemble a girl. He was the shortest of them all; the water came up to his chest.

That made him an easy mark. He yelped as he was suddenly grabbed by the legs and pushed up, up, up and dashed back into the creek!

If Alex weren’t holding his breath, he would have laughed. The resulting splash backwashed into Oliver’s face, sending water up his nose.

Alex wasn’t finished taking umbrage yet. Each boy wore cotton drawers for their afternoon swim as small concession to modesty. 

They were flimsily fastened with buttons, and, Alex noted, delightfully easy to remove.

“Hey! Quit it!” Oliver yelped, skipping to keep his balance in the water as something went slithering down his ankles, nearly tripping him. He beckoned to his friends to stop splashing, but they were too far gone in the act of stirring up the water in the wake of Roy’s splash.

Months of nightly abuse at Lionel’s hands taught Alex how to hold his breath. His lungs were burning by the time he erupted from the other side of the creek. Triumph surged through him, making his heart skip…or perhaps that was just from the cool water and skipping up onto the muddy bank. Smugly he waved Oliver’s drawers over his head like a flag.

“Give those back, you bastard!” Oliver shouted. His face was turning beet red as his friends suddenly stopped splashing each other and noticed their leader crouching slightly in the water, arms close to his sides. 

Alex winced for a moment at the slur; for one brief moment, he remembered his mother’s sobs at his father’s hands after he’d taken his nightly measure of brandy.

 _Never forget, Lillian, that I’m raising your bastard as a Luthor. Do you hear me?_ His mother turned white as a sheet the day Alex asked her what the name meant, when he was old enough.

He recovered himself quickly and jeered, “Who’s the baby now? Maybe your mother needs to change your diapers, Olly, since you don’t know how to wear pants yet!”

“Look! Olly’s naked!” one of his cohorts pointed out gleefully, giving Oliver a short splash to drive the fact home. Oliver’s hands were cupped around his privates; he fumed and cursed under his breath before finally turning to Roy.

“Go! Get ‘em for me!” Alex was finally enjoying himself. Amusement percolated in his stomach, along with a sense of closure.

Revenge…was sweet.

Feeling full of himself, Alex hopped into the spare drawers, turned and shook his rump at his audience, who were shocked, disgusted and amused by turns, entirely at Oliver’s expense. “Come and get them, if you want them back so badly.” Alex’s voice held much of Lionel’s haughtiness and inflections that were present whenever he had the upper hand with any of his associates, or his enemies. It would come to serve him well.

In the meantime, however, he never expected Oliver to move that fast…

Oliver was barreling through the water, plowing through it with his hands in sweeping motions, centered only on getting him. Alex whooped and scampered back a few steps, still grinning. His friends stood dripping and agape. Oliver’s eyes resembled burning coals.

“He doesn’t care! Look at him!” Roy shouted, pointing and then shrinking back, waiting for the rest of the boys to react to his nudity.

Alex was riveted in place for scant seconds, eyes pinned to the sight of Oliver’s body rising out of the creek, lips drawn into a straight line and fists cocked.

A strange, tingling hot flush crept over Alex, and his smile slipped. Oliver was roughly as tall as he was, but his skin was burnished from the sun, and he wasn’t given to freckles like Alex. He was suddenly uncomfortable; it was one thing to cause someone’s nudity. It was another thing, altogether, to _witness it._ His eyes drifted lower – briefly – where they shouldn’t. 

Oliver caught the shift in his attention and roared, “C’mere, you bastard! I’m gonna kick your ass!” His cronies were shocked silent at the profanity; if any of their parents had heard them using such language, they’d have been horse-whipped. A chorus of mutters could be heard behind Oliver as he dashed after Alex.

 _Maybe I should just give them back!_ Alex’s lungs burned as he tasted the wind, feeling his bare feet slap the ground and smart with the impact. His arms pumped as he listened to Oliver’s footfalls and pants behind him, mingled with muttered curses. He was in _so_ much trouble…

Trouble came calling sooner than he’d expected. He felt Oliver’s hard shove before his knees buckled. The center of his back throbbed from the force of the other boy’s knuckles, and his knees burned and rasped along the grass, promising weeping scrapes. He barely caught himself, almost spraining his wrist, but he bit his tongue on the way down, and nothing cushioned the impact of his fall.

Then the blows began, buffeting him and overloading his senses. He felt Oliver’s slim, taut frame crouching over him, crushing the breath out of him as he straddled his rib cage from behind. Alex struggled to lift himself up, but continued to take unwitting mouthfuls of the ground. Oliver pummeled him, egged on by the jeers from the creek and his own rage.

“I told you! Give ‘em back, Alex! You think you’re so smart, huh? Bastard!” There was that word again. “You’re just a big baby, and nobody likes you! How d’you like it, huh? Huh? Tell me how much you like it, Big Head!”

Alarms went off in Alex’s head.

_It was happening again._

He wasn’t hearing Oliver’s taunts and rants anymore. He heard Lionel, calling him the same names, beating him with the stiff crack of his belt. He felt Oliver’s clammy flesh butting up against his lower spine, his skin still chilled from the creek. Over and over again he punched him as he lay on his stomach. The pain was nothing.

Alex had to get loose, and he had to get loose _now._

He clawed at the dirt, fighting to get purchase and writhing to shake off the weight pushing him down. He bucked and arched, finally flipping himself onto his back, but Oliver clung fast, still punching him.

 _Naked. Cold. Exposed…weak._ Fear gripped him, making him sick.

“AAAANNNNNGGGGHHHH! GET OFF! GET OFF, GET OFF ME! All he saw was the rage, now mingling with confusion on Oliver’s face.

“Fine,” he sneered coldly. “Give them back.” He pressed his hand against the center of his chest and shoved him again, forcefully enough that he bit his tongue. Mercifully Oliver lifted himself off of Alex, only to bend down and jerk the second pair of drawers down from his waist, making the other boy cringe beneath him again. He cowered back, and instantly hated himself as he scrabbled free of the cotton pants.

“That’s what you get, taking anything from me,” Oliver promised, but Alex was too far gone and could only concentrate on emptying the sour contents of his stomach. Oliver watched in disbelief as Alex struggled to his feet, bolted and threw up behind a tall oak. Oliver winced and wrinkled his nose, but suddenly felt a pang of worry.

“Ewwww…what’s wrong with you, Alex?” The other boys were already leaving the water, sorting out their discarded clothes, and they were equally squeamish at the sound of Alex wretching so miserably.

He’d felt so exultant before, and so relieved that he wasn’t the target of Oliver’s humiliations this time…or Lionel’s. But this time he brought the punishment down on himself. The enormity of it made him wretch again.

“Hey, Alex,’ Oliver interjected, wringing out his drawers, which were now hopelessly grass-stained. “C’mon, get up.” Alex heaved and gasped, closing his eyes as he leaned against the raspy bark. He began to shudder. “Alex…” Oliver put his squeamishness aside and donned his drawers, buttoning them and sidling up to the sick boy. He reached out and poked him. Alex reflexively slapped his hand away before he could blink.

“You started it,” Oliver lied.

“Hate you,” Alex grated out. Slate blue eyes glared balefully at him, but were filled with hurt and betrayal. “Hate you, Oliver.”

“Pfft…so?” But he felt guilt edging through him, somehow, watching Alex suddenly seem so vulnerable. Alex stiffened and stood up straight, brushing the grass off his hands. His knees were already reddening with shallow scratches and abrasions.

“To hell with you,” Alex shot back. Oliver and the other boys paled for a moment. He’d said it with conviction, and sounded so much like Lionel.

He was well away from the boys when he fumbled with his shirt, shrugging back into it and pulling on his stockings.

 

~0~

After dinner Alex made himself scarce, ducking out of the dormitories past curfew to be alone in the stables. He’d smuggled pencil and paper along with him and slumped against the fence post of the paddock. He set down his lantern to allow himself some light and began to scrawl in copperplate script, practicing it out of habit. He hoped Clark could read it.

_Hello, Clark._

_School keeps me busy. I am working hard to make my father proud. He expects that of me, and I cannot disappoint him. You were right, though. He is a mean man._

_I like horses now. I don’t think I’m afraid of Biscuit anymore. I’d like to ride him again, someday. I never got to see your pa’s farm. I sure want to._

_Tell Pete I bet he still throws like a girl. I still play baseball sometimes. I’m getting bigger, now. I might be as big as my father one day. I hope I get even bigger than that. Then he can’t hurt me._

_Tell Shelby I would like to meet him if I ever come back to Smallville. By the way, Clark, your ma is very nice. I still have that green rock we took from the cave. Have you been back to the caves?_

_I went swimming today._

Alex paused, swallowing back revulsion. He couldn’t tell Clark…it was too much. He was nearly bursting with the burden of it, but it was his shame to bear, handed out by his father. He continued blithely, resigned.

_The school’s big. They have a creek here. No leeches, so far. The food is good here, but not as good as your ma’s stew. I like arithmetic and science, and we are learning more about agriculture, too. I want to be the smartest person in the class. Maybe in the school, if I work hard enough. School is important, Clark. My father always says that nothing’s more important than knowledge._

_If you want to, you can write me again._

_Your friend, Alex_

That was enough. He folded it and stuffed it into his pocket, planning to place it in the outgoing post in the morning.

He stepped outside of himself and just let his eyes wander over the landscape before him, drinking in the night sounds beneath the twinkling stars. The air was still slightly humid but was cooling enough to promise mosquitoes if he stayed out too long. Unbidden, Lionel’s voice came to him, lilting and deep, chilling him to the core.

 _Oh, Susannah, don’t you cry for me…_ He gulped back bile but mastered it this time. Dinner had been an ordeal. Several sets of eyes watched him every time he lifted his fork, and he occasionally heard sniggers and whispers. The roasted potato stuck in his throat, and milk tasted sour on his tongue. 

Melancholy was all Alex knew. Joy didn’t live here, not even as an infrequent guest. He toyed with a stick, drawing patterns in the dry soil.

“Hey!” His head snapped around at the sound of the voice behind him. 

Oliver.

The curious youth approached him hesitantly. Alex wasn’t expecting much beyond a rematch, but he wondered why he came out there to speak to him, alone. Oliver’s dark eyes held no rancor, but he smirked anyway. Alex cut his eyes at him accusingly.

“What are you doing here?” he griped.

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Why are _you_ out here?”

“This is my spot,” Alex explained as though he were talking to an idiot. “I can be out here if I want.”

“Not after curfew.”

“ _You’re_ out after curfew.”

“So?”

“So why don’t you just go back inside,” Alex suggested archly.

“Why don’t you?”

“Because I was here first!” Oliver huffed and made a face.

“Listen to the baby trying to sound all tough.”

“You’re not so tough, either.”

“I showed you at the creek.”

“All you did was knock me down.”

“Yeah, sure! I didn’t just knock you down! You got sick all over yourself,” Oliver crowed. Alex had had enough.

“This is still my spot, so you should leave! Go find your own spot.”

“You don’t own the school. Or the yard,” Oliver pointed out, emphasizing his point by sitting in the dry grass and weeds, toying with a stick of wheat grass. He was several feet away, but even that proximity made Alex’s skin crawl and indignant heat flush into his cheeks.

“My father could afford to buy this school if he wanted,” Alex challenged.

“So what! So could mine,” Oliver argued. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I don’t care, either. Why don’t you just go home to your father, then, if he’s so great?”

“Why don’t you?” Oliver countered.

“Is that all you can do? Say everything I say? You’re not too smart, are you, Olly?”

“You’re too slow. I caught you,” he reminded him. “Why did you get sick?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It was disgusting. Everybody saw you.”

“Everybody saw you with no pants on,” Alex retorted. He could tell that got to him; Oliver was back on his feet.

“You’re still a bastard, and nobody likes you!” His finger stabbed at him as he pronounced his sentence.

“Don’t call me a bastard!” Alex shouted. “Just shut up!”

“Make me!” Alex searched for something, anything through a red haze of anger and resentment. His eyes landed on a craggy, gray stone that felt cool and bumpy in his hand. He hefted it and whipped his wrist, letting it fly. His aim was true as it connected with Oliver’s temple.

“OWWW!” Alex recoiled instantly, contrite and newly shamed. When Oliver drew his hand away, blood came back on his fingertips.

“No,” Alex whispered. “Olly…I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he croaked, slightly louder as he dug into his pockets for a handkerchief.

“Look…what you did,” Oliver cried shakily, trying to straighten up but still floored by the sudden sting that made his temple throb. The welt promised to purple darkly once the cut scabbed shut. Alex was horrified by the sight of blood, and the rictus of pain that fell across Oliver’s features.

Alex was thrusting something soft at him; he batted at his hand until he pressed it into his palm. A handkerchief. He flinched and backed away but still took the cloth, pressing it against his head to staunch the blood.

“Shit,” he winced, “that stings! Ow! Why’d you do that?”

“You just cursed again,” Alex stammered.

“You just hit me with a rock!”

“You still cursed,” Alex urged, but he tugged on Oliver’s sleeve, prodding him to sit against the post he abandoned. Oliver conceded and slumped to the ground, cradling his wound.

“I’m sorry,” Alex repeated. “Sorry I hurt you.”

“What’s the big deal? I called you a bastard.” Alex swallowed.

“My father says I am a bastard,” he blurted out miserably. The pains of the day and the gravity pushing in on him undid him. Hot, stinging tears leaked from his eyes. He turned away and paced to the next closest post, hunching into his jacket and bowing his head beneath his cap. His shoulders shook, and Oliver watched him with concern and regret.

“Alex…”

“I hate you!” he sobbed brokenly. “I hate you for saying that in front of everybody! You’re just like him! You just came over here when I wasn’t doing anything, and you…just wanted to come hurt me and make me sick! Just because it’s dark, and we’re alone, you think you can just do what you want!”

“I got mad. You took my pants,” Oliver pointed out. “What’d you want me to do? I just wanted them back.”

“Y-you were on top of me. I got scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of what you would do, to m-me.” All of it came pouring forth in a rush, jarred from him from Clark’s letter, the day at the creek, and the cooling darkness around him. “He touched me. He hurt me. Took my pants, made me take my clothes off. Wouldn’t leave me alone. I kept hiding. It was dark, so he wasn’t supposed to see m-me.” His voice was broken by sobs.

“He’s your pa,” Oliver argued softly. “Where did he hurt you?”

“Here,” Alex admitted, not looking up at Oliver, who was standing closer than he’d anticipated, never feeling the closing gap between them when he approached. Alex was still crooked over the post, but Oliver watched his hand slide over his stomach, just resting below the waistline of his knickers. Cold realization flooded Oliver and made him twist the handkerchief in his grasp.

“But he’s your pa, he can’t do that.”

“He does whatever he wants,” Alex sniffled, smearing away a thin trail of snot with the back of his hand. Oliver nudged him with the handkerchief, offering it back. “He’s a Luthor,” he added, as though, once again, it was supposed to explain everything, only to a different audience.

“You’re here now,” Oliver reminded him quietly. “He can’t hurt you when you’re here.”

“I have to go home soon, for holiday,” he told him, gulping back the last of his tears. Oliver blanched.

“Do you have to?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Oliver was at a loss.

“Alex…why did you get sick?”

“You were on top of me. I felt you against my back. And then, you took off my…your pants. It felt like him.”

“I’m sorry.” Alex turned to stare into his face, dumbfounded. Oliver had just given him an apology? “I just thought you were a freak. I didn’t want you to throw up.” Alex elbowed him sharply.

“Aw, why don’t you just get out of here, Olly?” he said brashly.

“Why don’t you have any hair?” It was the first time anyone at his school had asked him with simple candor instead of tauntingly.

“Something happened.”

“When?”

“When I was small.” He’d never been able to put it into words for Clark. “My mother didn’t like to talk about it much.”

“Can’t she stop your pa from hurting you?” Alex shook his head numbly.

“Uh-uh.”

“Why not?”

“I killed her,” he replied.

 

~0~

Jonathan strode out of the barber shop, cleanly shaven and carrying the ruck sack of goods he’d picked up from the store for Martha under his arm. He whistled jauntily, knowing he’d have to explain himself for coming home so late. Knowing Martha, she’d have held dinner. He looked forward to telling Clark the new tall tale he’d heard that morning while he was helping the Sullivans raise a barn.

He made his way down the planks and was nearly barreled over by two men stumbling out of the saloon.

“Easy now, Mist’r Luth’r,” the shorter of the two urged, shouldering himself beneath the crook of Lionel’s arm as he led him away.

“I’m fine,” he snapped petulantly before he noticed whom they nearly collided with. “Oh. Kent, isn’t it?” he slurred, and Jonathan watched with disgust as recognition dawned in his slack features.

“Jonathan,” he corrected him gruffly. The two men seldom crossed paths, and that was how Jonathan wished to keep it.

“That’s a fine young lad, that son of yours,” he blathered, reaching for Jonathan’s arm to pull him closer. Jonathan wrinkled his nose at the sour scent of whiskey on Lionel’s breath, which was currently painting the side of his face. He recoiled beneath Lionel’s grip. “Perhaps he takes after a distant relative, hmmm? Doesn’t seem to favor you or your lovely wife, Martha, does he now?”

“Clark looks like himself,” Jonathan replied calmly, feeling that was the end of it.

“Bright lad. I saw him playing baseball with the Ross boy some time ago. They came into my store and purchased as much horehound candy as a nickel would buy them yesterday.”

“It’s a rare treat. Martha frowns on him eating too many sweets.”

“Ahhhh…so did my Lillian, God rest her soul. Thank heaven, Kent, that you have such a fine son, but remember, pride goeth before a fall,” he mused.

“You also have a fine son,” Jonathan pointed out. Perry was struggling on Lionel’s other side, still supporting him but not liking the direction of the conversation.

“Not anymore,” Lionel stated, and his watery eyes turned into hard chips.

 

~0~

_Dear Alex,_

_What did you and your friend Oliver do for the Fourth of July? Ma and Pa took me into town to watch the fireworks and we went to Pete’s farm for a bonfire. I ate more chicken than anybody!_

_Lana held hands with Whitney all night. Jason tried, but she just told him he could sit with her and eat with her next time. Chloe asked me if I wanted to hold hands, but I played tag with Pete instead._

“What did Clark say?” Oliver inquired, watching Alex’s slow smile.

“It’s just Clark being Clark,” he replied.

_I don’t go to the cave anymore. I want to, and Pete and I tried, but I got sick again. Ma doesn’t want me to go there anymore._

_Your pa is still looking for those green rocks. He calls them emeralds. They look like that necklace your ma had before, a little. I liked your ma. I wish you were with your ma and Julian. Sometimes I still have bad dreams. I see you crying._

_I’m getting bigger now, too. Wait til you see me._

_Here is a picture I drew of me and Pete._

_Your friend, Clark_

The drawing showed more character than skill, sketched in charcoal and pencil. Two boys were shown in a pool of scribble that Alex assumed was a field. The taller one held a bat, the other a glove. “This is for Lex” was jotted in the corner in Clark’s wiggly print. Alex kept it in his desk drawer, wishing he had a small frame. Oliver grinned when he saw it.

“That’s a funny drawing.”

“Clark’s only eight,” Alex qualified. “He’s still a little kid.”

“Alex, what was Julian like?” Alex’s smile faded, and he went back to a dark place.

“He was my brother. He loved me. Ma loved him more than me, but it was okay. I loved him, too. I couldn’t get him out,” he murmured dully. He’d related that day back to Oliver several weeks ago, shortly after the incident at the creek. Oliver had listened, stunned and remorseful, and the two of them had reached a truce.

“You’re just a kid, too.” Alex just stared at him as Oliver turned his nose back into his history text. 

The dreaded holiday had come and gone, with Alex staying in custody of the school during the break when his father wrote them and gave his regrets, but he would be unable to arrange for his son’s journey home. Alex was relieved; his only regret was that he wouldn’t see Clark.


	7. What’d You Just Do??!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex grows older, but his life grows more complicated. Clark still misses him and tries to sort out feelings of his own.

Martha remembered the details of that night with clarity. Jonathan had gone out to cut firewood. Idly she made a neat line of feather stitches, using a blue gingham shirt Clark had outgrown for scraps.

**Then:**

CHOK! CHOK! CHOK! Jonathan rested a moment, rotating is shoulder cuff to relieve the burn before swinging his hatchet again. CHOK! He cleaved the wedge in two, spraying his pants with more dust and splinters, but he stood back, satisfied. Now he had a cord of wood, just in time for the blizzard that he knew was likely to hit them before week’s end. His herd had been restless, a sure sign that they were in for snow that would keep them from town for weeks.

Jonathan briefly removed his hat and wiped his brow. There were moments, at times like these, when he wished he had a sturdy son to help him load his wagon, but it was a sore subject. He counted himself lucky to have a wife like Martha. She was smart, generous, hard-working, God-fearing, tender and an unbeatable cook; he wouldn’t count barrenness as a shortcoming in his otherwise perfect wife. Three miscarriages broke both their hearts, and a still birth nearly killed her.

Martha Kent compensated for this loss with charity. When a new baby among their circle of friends was born, Martha cooked, quilted and played midwife. She delivered home remedies whenever anyone had a sick child, easily dispersing gossip that Jonathan’s wife was “fallow.” Smallville loved Martha Kent, and they were protective of her.

Jonathan was mentally counting how many supplies they could afford if he cut and sold another cord of wood when he caught a strange flash in the sky.

It was too early in the evening for shooting stars; it was barely dusk.

Buck nickered at him and shied, spying it, too; Jonathan caught his bridle and calmed him with soothing sounds and strokes, but he was still ill at ease.

There. Another flash. And another. Jonathan had never witnessed anything like it, and he was anxious to return home. Martha would be just as awed, when he told her.

His knees buckled when the ground around him thundered and shook, and he cried out, cupping his ears from its deafening roar, louder than a locomotive. Buck reared up and tore at his tether, and his whinnying reminded Jonathan of a woman’s scream as he fumbled for his lantern. He fought to load the wood quickly, not wanting to lose a day’s work, but he had to find shelter and lie low. He guesstimated that the closest, makeshift bunker was the clutch of caves; he was less than a mile away.

All around him erupted Armageddon. Martha’s low, sweet voice reading their nightly Bible scriptures in front of the fire came back to him. _Revelations._ He was witnessing it now, and wanted to fall to his knees…

Trees shook with each impact against the ground, and Jonathan numbly realized they weren’t stars. They were just destructive.

Glowing, pulsing rock gathered friction and heat as it jetted through the sky, plowing through the earth as it landed and uprooting everything in its path. Buck and Beryl were frothing around the bit now, and Jonathan knew he had no choice, firewood be damned. He had to make it to the caves.

He leapt up into his wagon and gave the horses their head, driving them out of the woods as though Hell was behind them. In a way, it was.

“Almost there,” he grimaced as his wagon barreled along the gravel trail. His heart pounded in his ears as the ground suffered another barrage of rock. All around him, fields were ruined; he knew this night would result in ruin for many families. His stomach twisted at the sight of a burning barn in the distance and the smell of smoke.

Less than twenty minutes later, he sat huddled in the caves with his lantern by his side. He watched, despondent, as the flaming rocks continued to fall. It was nightfall now, late enough that Martha would be worried sick. His heart went out to her, and Jonathan craved the feel of her bundled against him, whether she scolded him or not.

His musing and silent prayers were interrupted by a shrill cry.

“Dear Lord,” he murmured incredulously. He waited a moment, and listened again.

_A child!_ He didn’t hesitate this time; Jonathan merely grabbed his lantern, clutching his coat more tightly around his frame as he exited the cave. Beryl nickered a warning behind him.

The ground still shook beneath his feet, but he remained steady as he followed the sound.

_There._ In the clearing, he spied a shallow crater, still smoking and throwing up gouts of dust motes into the air.

“Oh, no!” he cried anxiously, and his feet sped him through the debris, heart hammering on behalf of the child. Where was the family? He sent up a prayer as he picked his way through the smoke, wrapping his mouth in the fold of his coat sleeve.

The cries were hiccupy and desperate, piercing him. Jonathan didn’t ponder for long how odd it was that the rock hadn’t pummeled down a house or shack; there were no broken boards or roofing shingles around the crater. It made no sense, but everything about this night defied _sense._

“I’m coming! It’s all right, I’m coming! I hear you,” he shouted reassuringly, hoping the little mite would be comforted by the sound of his voice. “I’m coming!” The cries became more plaintive, but stronger, telling Jonathan he was close.

He stumbled against something hard. It made a hollow, resonant sound, like metal.

Gusts of wind swept through the field, buffeting him. Jonathan held tight to his hat and huddled further into his coat, finally bending down and using the metal as a bulwark and anchor. The cries continued. Jonathan was petrified but determined. He _had_ to help that child.

The wind died down to a mere whistle. Jonathan wiped the grit from his eyes and peered about the crater. It was shallower than he was tall, thankfully, and craggy enough for him to have an easy foothold to get out. He leaned his forehead against the metal, shivering at how cold it felt along his flesh.

“wwwaaaAAHHH-uh-AHHHHH! AHHHHH! AHHHHH!” Those sobs wracked his ears. He was right on top of their source.

_The baby!_

The child was _inside_ the metal!

“Good…Lord,” he breathed incredulously.

The sight staggered him, yet sickened him. Who would lock away a child in such a contraption? The metal gleamed from beneath the dust. Its surface was scarred with burn marks and dents, showing that it ran into obstacles during its travels, however it got there…

The leaflet of an idea drifted down to Jonathan, and he still couldn’t accept it.

“It can’t be,” he whispered, stroking the strange, clear pane that revealed the baby’s tiny face, twisted and puckered with its cries. The baby stopped for a moment, hiccupping again and waving tiny pink fists. 

_He had to get him out. Now._

“Easy,” he crooned, desperate to find something to pry open the capsule. He felt along the sides, looking for an opening, or a hinge. His fingers connected with a strange, protruding nodule, and he depressed it hard.

It clicked and made a sliding noise, and Jonathan felt the capsule thrum loudly, shuddering under his hands.

The pane slid open neatly, and the baby’s cries were unimpeded now, wracking his ears as he reached down, plucking it from its nest.

“How on earth will I explain this to Martha?” The baby had no answers from him, still squalling as he wrapped him in his coat.

 

**Now:**

 

Martha looked up at the sound of Clark’s clumping footsteps as he entered the kitchen. He grinned at her as he snatched up a cookie from the plate.

“Clark! Not right before dinner!”

“I’m starving,” he insisted, backing away quickly and biting heartily into the cookie before she could get up from her quilt frame.

“That’s enough, Clark. Go. Sit down and study. Tell Pa that the stew’s ready. Go.” She shooed him off sternly, even though he smiled at her again. He was hard to resist when he smiled.

“All right, Ma.” He stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth and headed outside. She sighed after him. Thirteen years old, and Clark was nearly as tall as Jonathan. It baffled her. She put away her thimble and folded the scraps, laying them carefully in the basket. Martha set the table and shook her head at her son’s cheek. Starving, indeed. Clark had the appetite of ten men.

They still bore the burden of his secret. Martha still lost sleep at night.

She was stirring the stew and ladling it into large, thick ceramic bowls when the two men in her life ambled back inside. Jonathan greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, bringing in the scent of fresh air and smoke. He’d butchered two hogs several hours ago, and they’d have enough smoked ham left to sell, thankfully, even after they stocked their own pantry.

She watched them both seat themselves at the table, letting her eyes linger on her husband. His skin was more weathered, and there were more strands of gray woven through his dark blond hair. The lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes and flanking his lips had deepened, but it didn’t take away from his handsomeness. His posture was a bit more stooped than it had been from years of hard work, but he wore it well. Clark caught her appraising glance, letting his own eyes land on his father. His brows drew together slightly in concern.

“You look tired, Pa.”

“That won’t keep me from your ma’s stew,” he scoffed, reaching over to ruffle Clark’s dark waves. Martha joined them and they said grace. Clark made short work of his plate, making her shake her head.

“I nearly forgot, Clark. You received a letter today.” His green eyes lit up as she nodded to the side table.

“Can I read it now?”

“Clear your plate and excuse yourself,” she reminded him.

“Excuse me,” he offered, hating how impatient he sounded.

“You’re excused, Clark,” Jonathan added as he broke open a flaky biscuit. Clark hurried over and snatched up the small, cream-colored envelope with Alex’s characteristic, neat script.

He dashed out to the barn, faster than his parents could blink, and climbed up into the hayloft. Alex’s letters were a rare treat and deserved his full attention, and privacy.

_You sound pretty smitten with Lana, if you ask me._

“Am not,” Clark grimaced aloud, but he still smiled. Maybe just a _little_ smitten…

_Whitley’s full of hot air, Clark. Women like someone strong and steady, in the long run, like your pa. Courtesy goes a long way. Offer to carry her books, if you want to get her attention. And for the record, if I had to guess, I’d say that Chloe Sullivan has her eye on you. Watch out for that one, Clark. The way she gossips, she’ll set tongues to wagging all over town that you’ve asked her father for her hand!_

“Ugh!” Clark wrinkled his nose in disgust. Alex had it _all_ wrong.

_Oliver and I visited a college two weeks ago and toured the grounds. It was nice, but I don’t think Father will approve of the curriculum much. He still wants me to focus on business, but I prefer agricultural science. Oliver talked me into a new suit for our trip. I look like a dandy! It’s the most outlandish thing you’ve ever seen. I’ll let you try on the coat and hat when I get back. My train leaves three days from now, at one o’clock._

Clark’s eyes widened and scanned the letter’s heading for the date. “He’s coming tomorrow!” Joy filled him, and he sat up and ran his fingers over the smooth stationery, drinking in his best friend’s words and itinerary.

_Oliver’s coming with me. I think you’ll find him amusing. Oliver’s father gives him a substantial allowance, so we’ll entertain ourselves in grand style when we get there._

_I’m really happy about visiting you, Clark. See you soon._

_Your friend, Lex_

Clark folded it shut with a hint of disappointment. Lex was coming to see _him_ , so why was he bringing along Olly?

 

~0~

Sometimes, it was just too easy.

Alex’s fingers danced over gleaming ivory keys, feeling the music keenly as he always did, but not losing himself in it as he would have liked. He had an audience to impress. Every now and again, he’d smile mischievously over his shoulder. Behind him, Oliver rolled his eyes.

Show-off.

Beethoven’s symphonies were still his best friends. He heard the faint feminine titters as he continued to play the sonata. He brought the last movement to its triumphant conclusion with a flourish, pushing himself back from the piano when he finished. He was greeted by applause from several sets of small, slender hands. Oliver’s laugh was disbelieving and sly. He shook his blond head at his friend’s pandering antics.

Women _adored_ Alex. Apparently he wasn’t a mama’s boy or a freak, after all, Oliver mused.

Alex was brilliant and skilled in different pursuits. He was an unbeatable chess player. He furthered his musical education at the academy, gradually becoming a piano virtuoso as early as twelve. Now, at seventeen, he brought down the house.

His father’s money was no longer a setback. Alex found that his taste for travel offered his father the chance to pretend he was rid of him. He accompanied Oliver to Italy, Paris and Athens on holiday, despite Alex’s problem with seasickness, but it was worth it. The Queens were an amicable couple and they, too, admired Alex’s cunning intellect and impeccable manners. The only thing that unnerved them at times was the moody cast that came over his face from time to time, and his eyes that sometimes appeared ancient.

Alex and Olly slowly became thick as thieves. Roy and Olly’s other gang of cohorts tolerated Alex’s presence among them warily, remembering the scene at the creek, but also the way Alex had turned the tables on them. Moreover, they were in awe of Alex’s determination to humiliate Oliver, even at the expense of his own dignity. Oliver never told them what Alex shared with him the night in the paddock. There were some ills and hurts that couldn’t be shared, and what happened to Alex was unthinkable. Oliver still shuddered whenever he imagined Alex cowering in the dark, hearing his father’s voice calling for him. Mocking him.

Alex sometimes talked in his sleep. His first year at the academy was the worst.

 

**Four years ago:**

Oliver awoke after midnight with the urge to relieve himself. He groggily climbed out of bed and rubbed his eyes, trying to let his eyesight adjust to the darkness.

He heard his roommate fidgeting and tossing his bed, rumpling the bedclothes. 

“Mnnnhhh…no. No, please.”

“Lex?” Olly muttered, slightly irritated that he’d woke him when he’d planned to be quiet. He adopted Clark’s nickname, although he didn’t admit that he liked it. Oliver merely insisted that Alexander was still too sissy a name, much to his friend’s disgust. Alex had taken umbrage by tying Olly’s shoelaces together beneath the table at supper, sending him sprawling. His face flushed at the memory. _Damned Lex…!_

“Father…don’t!” His voice became more plaintive, rising slightly in pitch. His hands twisted the covers, and he began to scrub his face as if wiping away a fly.

Alex’s features, what Oliver could make of them in the gloom of their dorm, were twisted in pain. His stomach knotted itself uncomfortably as he approached the bed.

“Alex? Wake up!” he urged impatiently. Alex’s hand grew tangled in the comforter. Oliver carefully freed it, but that didn’t cease his agitation.

“Father, don’t! DON’T! Don’t touch me there, Father! Please…I’ll be good! I promise!” Oliver blanched as he realized what Alex was reliving in his sleep.

“Jesus,” he swore, knowing his mother would smack his mouth if she could hear him. “Lex, it’s all right, wake up! Wake up, Lex!” He gently clasped his shoulder and shook him.

“DON’T TOUCH ME, DAMN YOU! I HATE YOU!” Alex roared, and his voice sounded like someone else’s, not a scared little boy. His blue-gray eyes snapped open, and they were filled with rage. His hand balled itself into a fist, and he hurled it into the face looming above him in the dark.

“AAAHH!” Oliver cried as pain exploded in his nose. “Damn it, Alex!” Alex stared into the dark, horrified by Oliver’s crouching figure beside the bed.

“D-don’t hurt me,” he ordered coldly, despite his fears.

“I wasn’t gonna, Lex. What’d you do that for?” Olly whined. His voice was nasal from his tentative probing of his nose. Blood trickled down his upper lip and threatened to stain his nightshirt.

“Olly…blast! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I swear!” He sat bolt upright in the bed and watched his roommate stumble in the dark. Oliver rummaged through his bureau and found a handkerchief in the top drawer. He heard Alex’s light footsteps padding up behind him.

“Let me see.”

“Uh-uh,” he protested sourly. His voice was muffled by the cloth as he staunched the flow of blood. “Leave me alone an’ go back t’bed,” he griped. “Quit dreaming out loud.” Alex looked horrified.

“What d’you mean?”

“You were yelling in your sleep.” Alex swallowed and looked sick.

“What did I say?”

“You said ‘don’t.”

“Don’t…what?”

“You said ‘don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me.’ You were scared. Alex?”

“Yeah?” he replied. His voice shook.

“You were yelling at your pa.” Alex suddenly felt dizzy from a rash of hot prickles that swept over his skin. He drew back from Olly and dropped back onto his mattress, as though someone clipped his strings.

“Shit,” he breathed. Olly’s eyes widened. Alex almost never swore.

Alex broke his promise to himself that he’d never cry in front of Oliver again. Oliver felt uneasy as Alex sniffled raggedly and watched him cover his face, cradling it in his palms and resting his elbows against his knees. His sobs were silent, but his shoulders shook.

Something inside Oliver shuddered, and his reserve cracked. When he eventually grew into a young man, he’d remember back to that night and still feel pangs of sadness that someone could endure as much suffering at the age that they were. He continued to daub at his nose, absorbing the slowing flow.

“Lex?”

“Leave…me alone,” Alex whimpered. “Please leave me alone.”

“Uh-uh. You’re crying.”

“Shut up, Olly!”

“You hit me!” he pointed out, and his eyes finally adjusted enough to the darkness that he saw Alex’s face contort with guilt. His eyes gleamed from tears that he mopped away with his sleeve.

“M’sorry.” It was becoming a ritual. Olly sighed. His nose finally stopped bleeding, but it still throbbed.

“Next time you can just have your bad dream,” he groused.

“Why’d you try to wake me up?” Alex found himself feeling a mixture of guilt and gratitude.

“Because. Couldn’t sleep with you making all that racket.” He didn’t mention that he’d been about to go to the lavatory. Alex tsked.

“Don’t bother next time, if you don’t want a punch in the nose.” Olly watched Alex’s hand slowly, gingerly reach toward his face. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah, it hurts,” he snapped. 

He was surprised and interrupted from further rebuke as Alex’s slender fingers approached him, lightly touching his cheek. “What’re you doing, Alex?” He snatched his hand away, but Olly’s cheek still felt the warmth of his fingertips.

“N-nothing. Just…making sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” he argued.

“Ruined your handkerchief.”

“Mother can send me more. Who cares?” Alex was thoughtful for a moment. 

“Was it special? I mean, did your mother make it?”

“Nope. Bought it at the mercantile,” he explained with a shrug. “Are you all right?”

“M’fine.”

“Maybe now you can stop crying and go back to sleep,” Oliver suggested, amusement building in his voice again. The dynamic between them was shifting back to what it was, but he clung to the moment a bit longer. Oliver doubled the handkerchief in his hand to cover the bloodstains and reached out to scrub the tearstains from Alex’s cheek. Alex sat stunned by the contact, but he didn’t lean away. The strokes of the cloth were fleeting and slightly rough, but he was comforted by Olly’s efforts.

“Idiot,” Alex pronounced gruffly.

“Baby,” he shrugged, but there was no animosity in his voice. His fingertips grazed Alex’s cheek as he crumpled the cloth in his hand. He continued to stare at him, holding his gaze. Oliver cocked his head.

Alex’s cheek felt soft and smooth. His hand stretched toward him again, and Alex held still once more while Oliver’s fingers touched him, caressing his skin and tracing his eyebrow, then his temple. Alex sat transfixed by his slow, gently exploration of his face. He tingled again, but this time there was a warmth in his gut. Heat rushed over his scalp and ears as Oliver stood before him, touching him whisper-soft.

It felt sweet and foreign to him. Tenderness was no longer a part of his life after Lillian and Julian were taken from Alex so cruelly. He leaned into the caress and closed his eyes, wishing. Hoping.

Oliver felt himself quiver, heart pounding as he ran his warm palm over Alex’s bare scalp, savoring how silky and smooth it felt, almost like an infant’s. He was drawn to him, unable to turn away or draw back to allow Alex the privacy he insisted he needed to compose himself.

His head inclined itself toward Alex, and he lowered his face toward his.

“Alex…”

“Olly?”

“Please…hold still.” His breath felt hot and tickled Alex’s brow right before Oliver’s thin, supple lips pressed themselves against his forehead, right above his eyebrow. Alex jerked back in surprise, eyes flying open accusingly.

“What’d you just do??!” His own heart hammered in his chest, too, and Alex felt dizzy again. He hugged himself vulnerably, not knowing whether to feel exhilarated or betrayed.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep!” Oliver cried as he spun and fled, letting the door close behind him with a sharp click. He ran toward the lavatory as though mad dogs were nipping at his heels.

Alex huddled under the covers so deeply the back of his bald pate was barely visible when Oliver came back, and he faced the wall.

 

~0~

 

**Two years ago:**

Metropolis summers were generally hot and dry and enjoyed little to no rain. When they were occasionally blessed with a cloudburst, the students at the academy enjoyed a swim in the brimming creek.

Alex and Olly waded indolently in the shallows, watching minnows and searching for frogs. They chortled occasionally as Roy and another boy roughly his size rooster-fought on the shoulders of two upperclassmen. Roy was triumphant, successfully wrenching the other boy sharply from his perch and knocking him back into the creek.

“Get ‘im, Roy!” Olly cheered. Alex sniggered as his opponent surfaced, complaining about water getting up his nose. He turned back and prodded the muck beneath their feet with a stick. 

Oliver contemplated his friend, sneaking looks at him with hooded eyes and admiration.

The sun left his creamy skin slightly burnished and brought out a few freckles on his shoulders and cheeks. His youthfully slim, angular body promised sleek muscle, and the beginnings of a proud bearing that would make all who saw him pay close attention. Alex Luthor’s face was starting to realize his mother’s beauty, marred only by a tiny scar on his upper lip. His cheeks had hollowed and lost their hint of baby fat, and his eyes held intelligence in their depths, but they still looked haunted. Long, slim fingers drew ripples in the water idly as he continued to watch the minnows.

He turned to Olly and snorted once he caught his pensive gaze. “What’re you staring at?”

“Nothin’,” he shrugged before abandoning his frog hunt. He gradually waded into the water up to his chest and ducked, submerging himself in the welcome cool. He broke through the surface again and decided he’d had enough.

He was already most of the way back to the bank before turning to Alex. “You coming?” Alex cocked his head curiously, then nodded.

He was unsettled. Every time he looked at Oliver, he just felt strange, lately. Itchy and restless.

He’d awoke days before with sticky drawers and unexplained stiffness between his legs. It wasn’t unpleasant, not by far, but he was shaken.

He’d dreamed of Oliver. Only this time, he’d kissed him. It completely confused him, and his face colored every time he remembered back to that night, seemingly more shameful than their meeting in the paddock. He’d nursed that memory and the resulting feelings for months, fighting to push it to the same place in his conscious where he kept the things he outgrew.

Oliver was on the bank, dripping wet. His britches clung to him, nearly transparent now, and molded to his long, slim legs and buttocks. Oliver’s hair was a darker blond from the wetness and slick as a seal’s, emphasizing the planes of his face, leaner now like Alex’s, but more rakish. His mouth loved to smile broadly, even impishly, and he was destined to break hearts. Even one closer to him than he thought.

The other boys gradually filed out of the creek, joining them on the sun-dappled bank. Oliver lay on his back, eyes closed, drinking in the decadent sunshine to warm his lax limbs. 

He felt Alex’s eyes dart over to him, flicking over his face every minute or so, prompting him to crack one brown eye.

“Quit staring at me!”

“M’not,” Alex muttered petulantly as he picked up a nearby stone and flung it into the water. He leaned back on his elbows and contemplated the water and his own feet.

Oliver caught him again mere moments later. “You’re doing it again.”

The other boys were fumbling reluctantly with their clothing, heedless of the exchange.

“I can’t stop,” he admitted and he stared down into his lap, bursting with shame. Oliver made a small sound and sat up, finally staring back. His eyes probed him. His curling, dark lashes were still wet. Alex flogged himself as the words leaked from his mouth.

“C’mon, Olly!” Roy shouted.

“M’coming later,” he complained on a shout before he turned back to Alex.

“Go ahead. Go.” Alex wanted to sulk over his admission and feelings of idiocy in peace. 

“I don’t feel like going yet.” He turned back to the water. “And you don’t own the creek, anyway.” It was the staple of every argument they ever had.

“Fine.”

“Good.” Roy and the others peered over their shoulders at the two remaining boys as they made their way back to the schoolhouse.

They were alone. Silence yawned between them for long minutes. Oliver gave up on his nap and adopted the same posture as Alex, leaning against the heels of his hands.

“Oliver, why’d you kiss me?” Oliver’s fingers fisted in the grass, and his stomach dropped into his feet.

“I didn’t…it wasn’t…I don’t know.” He swallowed in frustration and embarrassment. His usual cockiness fled him.

He couldn’t explain how Alex’s vulnerability touched him and called to him like a siren song, anymore than he could describe the strange tug of his body to want to be…near him, somehow.

He was stirred from his self-recriminations by a gentle brush of Alex’s fingers over the back of his hand. Alex focused on the act, not wanting to risk rejection if he looked into Oliver’s eyes. He owned the moment instead. A current of electricity flowed between them at the contact, and Alex felt a tightening in his crotch. He felt Oliver’s pulse hammering in his wrist and trembled when he realized it matched his own.

He skimmed his fingertips along the column of his arm, grazing him and making Olly’s stomach flutter.

Suddenly he yanked back his hand as though he’d been scorched. Alex’s face reddened and closed up.

Olly’s voice didn’t sound like his. “Do it.”

Alex’s eyes pleaded with him and asked permission before he reached for him again. Oliver’s skin was smooth save for the fine, sandy fuzz of hair coating his forearms, another burgeoning sign of puberty. This time Alex stared into his eyes, following the contour of his shoulder to the taut cords of his throat. Oliver had been leaning closer, shifting his body toward him and heeding the call of his touch.

Alex trembled, disbelieving that he was allowing him to touch him. The air around them was sultry, and a faint wind kicked up, ruffling the damp waves at Oliver’s nape. The rustling of the trees overhead and Alex’s own heartbeat filled his ears.

Oliver took the initiative and closed the gap. Alex’s eyes were already drifting closed as he waited and hoped. This time, Oliver’s soft lips landed on the corner of his mouth. His heart pounded in his chest and he nearly drowned in the euphoria it caused.

_Oliver…_ A voice inside him whispered that voice in wonder and awe. The emotions roiling inside of him threatened to undo him, but he needed it. He craved it, starved for affection and tenderness for too long. He felt bereft as Oliver drew back. He opened his eyes. Oliver watched him, waiting for his response.

Alex simply nodded. This time when he kissed him, his own lips hesitantly pushed back. Their breath steamed each other’s lips, sharing heat and the unfamiliar flavor of each other’s skin.

In his fifteen years, Alex never felt like this, never this heady, forbidden excitement flowing through him, kissing someone privately. Not in greeting, not a quick goodnight, and not the perfunctory peck from a visiting adult.

Alex gasped at Oliver’s hand skimming over his chest. Again, it felt strange, but not wrong. He still pulled back in surprise.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…nothing. C’mon, Olly, let’s go,” he encouraged as he rose from the grass and slapped bits of it from his drawers.

“Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“I, uh, I wanted to do that before.” He wouldn’t look at him as he reached for his own pants. “Y’know, that night. When you were crying.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh. I didn’t want you to be sad anymore.” Alex was still reeling from the path the day had taken, but he felt satisfied.

 

~0~

 

**Now:**

Oliver and Alex chatted with the girls as Alex collected and put away the sheet music. He was, in his own words, dressed like a dandy. His black suit was sedate enough except for the royal blue satin vest beneath it, winking out from his jacket. His tie was held neatly in place by a gleaming pearl tack. He wore his clothes with jaunty charm.

Oliver was no less flamboyant. His own suit coat was a deep forest green over the more sedate black of his vest and slacks, but upon closer inspection, the fabric held a subtle pinstripe. Both of them wore spats and gleaming, hard leather shoes.

They were visiting Oliver’s parents in Star City briefly while Oliver packed for his trip with Alex to Smallville. Alex merely laughed at Oliver’s initial selections of clothing and helped him revise his choices.

“You’ll ruin that in five minutes, as soon as you step off the train. Smallville’s known for its dust,” he explained as he replaced a fine red, brocade vest with velvet flocking in the armoire. “And you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.” Olly snorted under his breath. At seventeen, he cut a fine figure in whatever he wore, and he liked to make a lasting impression.

He certainly was now. The young girl with long, dark curls held back from her face with a black ribbon wore a dove gray blouse with a ruffled collar and yoke and a darker gray, bustled skirt. Her olive skin kept her from looking washed out in such a bland palette, and her eyes were blue as topaz. She giggled as Oliver gave her a wolfish look.

The Queens’ parlor was as elegant as Lillian’s while she was alive, filled with heirlooms and fine furnishings. Oliver’s mother’s handiwork was everywhere in the form of crocheted tablecloths and tatted lace doilies. She was one of very few people in their neighborhood affluent enough to own a piano. Oliver wasn’t a diligent student on the instrument, much to her dismay, but Alex was glad to indulge her taste for music on each of his visits.

“Excuse my son for being too rude to offer you ladies something to drink,” his mother chided as she brought out a tea tray. Olly grinned sheepishly and bade them to sit while his mother poured. He caught Alex staring at his back; sure enough, when he turned around, he was making a face and rolling his eyes. When no one was looking, he stuck out his tongue. Very little between them had changed.

They still jibed and traded insults in class or in the courtyard. Oliver wasn’t above snubbing Alex in the company of his peers, and Alex wasn’t too shy to let him know when he was acting like a jackass. They were frequent athletic rivals; Oliver could outshoot Alex with a bow, whereas Alex was better skilled at fencing and with a rifle.

Once their dormitory door was closed for the night, all of the ills and pains of the day fell away. They argued and chatted like brothers, taking umbrage with pillow fights, pinching or tickling each other until they were sick.

Oliver began a ritual of kissing Alex goodnight. The first time stunned him as much as the day at the creek, but he inevitably looked forward to it. Just a light stamp of his lips, and off he went. That changed one winter night, when they had an unseasonal thunderstorm.

Oliver woke with a shout in the middle of the night, making Alex nearly jump out of his skin. Lightning illuminated the darkened room; Alex heard the rocking creak of Olly’s bedsprings and realized he was sitting up in bed. He rubbed his eyes and rolled upright, squinting at him in the dark.

“Whatsamatter, Oll?” he slurred. Olly was stiff as a board, huddled back against the wall.

“N-nothing,” he insisted. “Go back to sleep!”

“You woke me up,” he complained with a heavy sigh.

“Mind your own business, Lex!” His snarl was cut off by a crack of thunder that shook the suite.

Oliver looked terrified. That’s when it dawned on Alex.

“You’re afraid.”

“Am not!”

“Are, too!”

“Don’t be an ass!” he hissed, but tension and fear were written all over his face. Alex got out of bed and padded across the room, not caring about the freezing cold floor boards beneath his feet.

“S’okay, Oll,” he assured him. The bed sagged beneath him, and he felt Alex reaching for him. His hand found him in the dark and clumsily patted his cheek, his hair, until Oliver inclined himself toward him. He gave him an awkward embrace while Oliver remained huddled in the blankets. With Oliver’s temple pressed against his cheek, Alex felt his pulse beating in his throat.

It became the first time they shared a bed. Oliver silently beckoned to him, and Alex eased in beside him while he covered him with the comforter. Oliver felt warm stretched out beside him, and his arm gently wrapped itself around his waist.

“Fraidy cat,” Alex accused.

“Am not,” he mumbled into the pillow. Oliver was already drowsy again huddled against his roommate. He still startled and jumped slightly with each boom of thunder, but the patter of rain on the roof and Alex’s soft breathing lulled him to sleep. Alex felt protective of him, stroking his hair and giving him a brief kiss.

The feelings never went away, no matter how hard he tried to fight it: Alex was falling in love with Oliver, and it scared the shit out of him.

Most disturbing of all, while watching Oliver flirt with Dinah (under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Queen and Dinah’s chaperone), Alex felt pangs of jealousy. Dinah made the polite pretense of chatting with everyone else in the room, but she giggled at every other word out of Oliver’s mouth, eventually handing him one of her name cards as a memento of their visit.

~0~

Lionel swirled the last of his cognac in his glass, watching the firelight shine through the amber liquid. Perry and his wife were gone for the night. Beside him, his current mistress lay slumbering and tousled; her perfume and the scent of brandy lingered on his sheets.

Alex was coming home. Frustration gnawed at him and wouldn’t let him sleep.

The more he grew, the less malleable he became. Each visit with his son found more hatred in his eyes where there was once grudging filial respect.

~0~

The last time that Lionel visited his son’s room in the dark was the final one after Alex broke one of his father’s precious bottles of whiskey and brandished the jagged neck, aiming for his father’s gut. Only then did Lionel truly see him.

All of his boyish softness was gone. Alex underwent baptism by fire at the academy, having to prove himself everyday as worthy of his classmates’ respect. The whelp lying in his son’s bed gripped the bottle neck so tightly his knuckles were white. Alex’s nostrils flared and his lips were a thin line. He exhaled heavily through his nose.

“Get. Out. Leave me alone,” he rasped through his teeth.

“You forget yourself, son.” Lionel held up his empty hands and backed away a step from the bed. His voice was calm, but he felt the first pricks of fear chilling his flesh.

“No, Father. I know very well who I am.” His voice was flinty and hard, the inflections just like Lionel’s. “I don’t want you in my room, Father.”

“You live under my roof. You’ll obey my rules.”

“Everyone in town thinks I’m your son,” Alex challenged warily. “You still sent me away. You and I both know why, Father.”

“You sound foolish, Alexander.”

“If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off, Father.” Lionel raised his hand to strike him; his face was purple with rage, but Alex jabbed the air with the bottle neck.

“You’re a bastard, and you dare to quote scripture to me?” Lionel laughed incredulously, but he was finished. His lust diminished with their confrontation, and he was through with him. Lionel re-buttoned his pants and eyed Alex with contempt. He longed to lunge across the room and wring Alex’s wrist until he dropped the remains of the bottle, wanting to crush him beneath his weight and strip away his night clothes. 

Alex’s helplessness fed Lionel’s libido. Without it, he only saw a worthless boy making empty threats. Lionel shook his head and smiled.

“You’ve no virtue to protect. You’re soiled and worthless. Just like your mother.” He let his eyes roam over Alex, making the boy feel just as violated as though he’d taken off his clothes. “I see nothing that I want, boy. Just realize that this was one of the last purposes you’ve served in my house.”

~0~

Lionel contemplated his drink again and pondered what to do about his son.

He needed an heir. He could remarry, but Lillian left a foul taste in his mouth. He had no use for a wife when a whore would serve the same purpose. He cursed Lillian’s soul once more for causing Julian’s death, but that wouldn’t bring him back.

Lionel peered down at his hand and flexed it into a fist, watching the scarred skin stretch over his misshapen knuckles. He wore gloves during the day, and Lionel was rich enough to distract everyone in town from his deformity.

He continued to watch the Kents like a fox. They’d intrigued him ever since he moved his wife and son to Smallville, purchasing the largest house in town. Lillian had no sooner hung their curtains in the front window than their son Alexander was struck by scarlet fever.

Perry was sent to the local apothecary and to rouse the town’s doctor, one whom Lionel deemed a quack, but Lillian wrung her hands and begged him to find help for their son. Alex’s skin was mottled and red from the rash and fever, nearly the same color as his titian hair. He burned with fever and aches and could barely keep down his mother’s broth.

The night that his illness reached critical severity, they witnessed the meteor shower in all of its fury. All around them the ground quaked and split as it was pummeled by smoking rock. Half of Smallville was on fire while Lionel prayed to God.

_You’ve blessed me with so much, Lord. But please don’t take my son and baby from me._ Lillian wrapped Alex in blankets and they huddled in the storm cellar, listening to the screams and collisions outside with sinking hearts. All Alex remembered was his mother sobbing over him and holding him close. Occasionally he felt something tickling his face, not realizing that strands, then clumps of his hair were slithering free from the root.

The day after the meteor shower, most of the town was in ruins. Lionel became a benefactor toward its reconstruction. He overheard Jonathan Kent speaking with Sheriff Ethan at the mercantile, describing the damage done to his paddock and the fence he had to replace.

The following week, Alex’s fever broke and his skin cleared, leaving him spry and as healthy as though he’d never suffered at all. Then the Kents arrived at church one bright Sunday morning carrying a baby boy wrapped in a pale blue blanket. 

No one in town remembered Martha being pregnant. Smallville’s attention was so focused on the new addition to their family that Lionel was allowed to leave town without notice. His son’s condition and the state of the town posed a problem. He couldn’t expand his own interests yet with everyone still so shaken.

He laid low five years; Alex was placed in a boarding school when Lillian insisted that the boy was restless and exhausting his tutors. He needed stimulation in the form of peers his own age.

It was a dire mistake. Alex hated his school and pleaded for his mother to summon him home. Lillian was too wrapped up in her newborn son; Lionel’s wishes to keep him there held sway. 

Alex stewed with resentment until the first moment that he met his brother Julian while he was on holiday from the school. Sullenly, he approached the expensive crib trimmed heavily in lace and peered inside.

The baby was still too young to smile, but his brown eyes focused fully on Alex’s face, studying him intently and following his subtle movements. When Alex reached out to count his little fingers, Julian met him halfway and squeezed his stubby fingertip in greeting.

Once Lionel rebuilt his resources and purchased the store, as well as a fleet of coaches, he moved his family from Metropolis, returning to their house and making it more opulent than before.

Lionel took another gulp of liquor, sighing contentedly at its slow burn.

Alex was precocious and brilliant, and just the man he needed to helm the mines. All he needed was the right form of persuasion.


	8. Fatted Calf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex returns home to find many things have changed, but the most important ones have stayed the same.

“It’s…so small.”

“Not every town can be Star City,” Alex shrugged as he stepped onto the platform at the station. Oliver appraised the tiny train station and shook his head.

“You can’t even call it a town. Smallville,” he muttered. “You can’t possibly intend to return here once we walk?” Graduation loomed around the corner, as menacing as it was exciting. Alex would be free, finally. But would he be vulnerable?

“I need to tie up loose ends. I won’t stay long. This town’s never really been home.” He wanted to admit to Olly that nowhere had ever been home after his mother was killed. Alex had no roots.

The world beckoned to him. Alex longed for Paris and Madrid. He craved open seas and open plains and lands where he barely knew the language, and where no one knew him at all.

“When do we eat? Tell me we can at least get decent food.”

“My father’s housekeeper’s decent. But,” he emphasized, holding up a finger to quell Olly’s protests, “we already have plans for supper tonight.” It was just past noon. The sun was still high in the sky, making both of them sweat in their day suits. Alex was grateful for his felt hat that protected his bare scalp from a likely burn.

The boy was now a man. As they strode through the station, several sets of eyes appraised them both, flickering with recognition as they spied Alex.

Lionel’s prodigal son had returned.

Perry stood waiting for them, more stooped and grizzled than Alex remembered. There was no love lost between them, but he straightened up where he leaned against the coach door.

“’Ere, now, let me get your trunks.” He nodded to their carpetbags. “Those’ll fit inside, on the second seat.” Alex nodded his approval.

“I don’t wish to be late in meeting my father. Take the short road home, Perry.” He motioned to Oliver’s belongings. “Don’t let anything happen to that.”

“That trunk’s probably worth more than your father pays him in a month,” Olly muttered under his breath as they climbed inside. Alex twisted his lips, giving him a sour look.

Then he relaxed. What did he hear what Perry heard or not?

Alex was a Luthor. With that name came certain privileges.

“It’s so dusty,” Oliver complained.

“Welcome to country life, my friend.”

“Tell me there’s a return ticket.” Alex chuckled and clouted him fondly. Oliver grinned.

The “short road” was still winding and rough with gravel that crunched beneath the coach’s wheels. Alex was drowsy from the trip and craved a nap. Oliver watched the passing scenery with curious dark eyes.

“Are those the mines?” He pointed to an outcropping of rock that overhung the cave’s entrance. Alex nodded, then leaned back and closed his eyes. “This looks like valuable property.”

“My father bought the mines and the five acres of land surrounding it.”

“Ever been inside?” Alex opened his eyes and stared at him for a long, uneasy moment, then looked away.

“Yes. As a young boy. Before you and I met.”

“What was it like?”

“Dark. Cold.” Alex removed his hat and rubbed his eyes roughly, then slumped forward to stare at the coach floor.

“Alex? What’s wrong? Alex?”

_They were alone. The cave’s walls were slick and damp._

_Clark was calling out to him piteously._

_Green rocks glowed in the gloom, mocking them with their brilliance._

_“I want my pa!”_

“You saw the stone,” Alex murmured. He set his hat down on the seat beside him and folded his hands. “The green one.”

“I remember now. Yes, I saw it.”

“We found it before my mother was killed. I wanted to give it to her, so she could make another necklace.” They rode past until the caves grew smaller behind them.

“What happened when you found it in the caves, Alex?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because you haven’t looked so pale since the day by the creek. C’mon.” He gave Alex a light shove. “Cheer up. We’re here in this godawful little home town of yours. Tell me there are pretty girls.”

“A few.” He was still shaken; anxiety clawed in his gut. _Clark._

He needed to see him with his own eyes. He sighed as Oliver held his hand.

“You all right?”

“Fine,” he lied. “Oll, there’s an introduction I need to make once we get freshened up.”

His father’s house looked the same. The fence was newly white-washed, and his mother’s lace curtains still hung in the front window, lovingly maintained by Mrs. Perry. Alex felt dread and anticipation mingle in his gut. His feet took him from the coach, following that groove that he’d worn from entering that house countless times, trudging home to punishment for his perceived failures.

Alexander Luthor was a man now. But he was still a scared, helpless little boy inside, and he loathed himself for it.

He never broke his pace as his boots thudded over the porch’s wood planks. He turned the knob. The house was already unlocked.

He smelled the whiskey as soon as he crossed the threshold. Oliver hung back slightly, waiting for Perry to bring their trunks, but he looked uneasy at the scowl that darkened Alex’s features. 

Lionel materialized in the doorway. His glass rested in his good hand, half-empty. He was impeccably groomed in his brown suit coat and black wool trousers, and his black satin cravat was perfectly knotted at his throat. Gray streaks invaded his dark brown hair, and fine lines webbed the corners of his eyes. Cruel eyes.

“You’ve come home, son.”

“Hello, Father.”

“And you’ve brought company.” Alex turned and waved Oliver forward with a flourish. 

“Oliver Queen.” Oliver hesitated a moment, then strode up and offered him his hand. Lionel’s eyes narrowed at the pause, but he took that moment to collect himself and set down his glass. He tucked his mangled hand in his suit pocket and shook Olly’s with the other. Alex watched them expectantly.

“Of the Star City Queens.” Oliver looked surprised, then smiled.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’ve come from fine stock. Alex has told me a lot about you in his letters, when he thinks to send me any communication at all from that school. I assume you’ve learned better etiquette, son.”

“I hope I prove that I have, during my stay here, sir.”

“Ah. Your stay,” Lionel murmured thoughtfully. He assessed them both, and Alex felt disconcerted by the way his eyes lingered too long. Once again, he felt undressed. Lacking. “Alex informed me that you were accompanying him into town, but I wasn’t expecting you to reside with us here at the house.”

“Father, we have plenty of room,” Alex argued. 

“We also have a fine boardinghouse three blocks from the store,” Lionel informed him crisply.

“Really, Alex, it’s no problem at all.”

“It’s no inconvenience for you to stay here.” Alex straightened, seeming to preen and strut with the gesture, waiting for Lionel to close his teeth over his nose. “Oliver can stay in my room.”

Lionel sighed, then shook his head.

“That’s fine. Alice can prepare the room for your stay, then. Perry,” Lionel beckoned. “Bring the chaise upstairs, to Alexander’s room. Young Mr. Queen will be staying with us tonight.”

Alex read his father’s mind as they continued to stare each other down. With a houseguest in his room, he wasn’t such easy prey.

 

*

“Here he comes.”

“Don’t look! He’ll see you.”

“You told me to look for him!” Chloe hissed impatiently. They watched from the end of the block as a tall, dark-haired boy ambled out from the Luthors’ mercantile, carrying a heavy bolt of blue fabric and a sack of groceries, seemingly without effort.

“Well, don’t look like we’re watching him,” Lana argued impatiently. She fiddled with the ruffled cuff of her dress and stopped herself from biting her fingernail.

“It’s just Clark,” Chloe reasoned. “Look, he’s turning around, just wave. C’mon, Lana!” She waved broadly, grinning at him. “Hello, Clark!” she sang. Lana turned beet red.

“ _Chloe_!” she hissed. “Quit it!”

“Whitney’s not here. Go ahead and talk to him.” Chloe liked nothing better than to get her goat. Lana made it so _easy_.

“I can’t. What if he thinks I’m too forward?”

“All you’re going to do is ask him a simple question. ‘Clark, are you going to the Smallville dinner social on Saturday?’” Chloe pantomimed, successfully parroting Lana’s voice and inflections. Lana snorted.

“Stop it, Chloe.”

“Whitney wants to take you.”

“Whitney wants to meet me,” Lana corrected her. “I’m not spoken for, so it would be unseemly if I made it look that way.”

“He watches you every time you enter a room. He wants to sit with you and walk you to school. My guess is, he’s fond of you,” Chloe said softly.

“He’s nice,” Lana allowed.

“To you,” Chloe argued. “He snuck a cricket into my lunch pail once.” The sight had startled her so much that she leapt backward off the stump she was sitting on and landed in the dirt. Chloe bit her tongue as she landed and vowed silent vengeance on Whitney and his cronies. 

Her chief weapon was her often venomous tongue.

“Make him wonder,” Chloe declared. “Clark actually IS nice. For a farm boy.”

“I know.”

“So why not talk to him?”

“Just…because.”

“Because why?” A familiar baritone, surprisingly deep for a boy not yet in his mid-teens made both girls freeze. Lana felt a hot rash of tingles spread over her skin as she whipped around to face Clark, now emptyhanded. His father was checking their horse, Biscuit’s shoe while his son ambled over for a quick hello.

“Oh! Hello, Clark.”

“Hello, Clarkie!” Chloe mocked, crossing her eyes at him and making a face. Making it even worse for Lana was watching Clark mimic the expression himself. She attempted to cover her face, pulling one of her carefully styled curls over her lips. 

“Goose,” he accused, reaching out to pinch Chloe’s arm. She pinched back, and the two of them engaged in a slap-and-tag match around Lana until she scolded them to stop. Lana deplored having the attention taken away from her, even by her bosom friend.

Lana and Chloe were frequently inseparable, save for Whitney’s attentions that invariably drove Chloe away. As young girls, they were the bane of Clark and Pete’s existence, to be teased and avoided at all costs. They were inadequate baseball players. Their giggling and whispering was incessant and annoying. They played with dolls and carried around fancy name cards and skipped around holding hands.

That was _then._

Play dresses with aprons and pinafores gave way to snug basques, corsets and sweeping skirts. Neither girl wore pigtails anymore. Chloe’s hair was now a darker honey blonde, and her freckles were less prominent. Lana’s hair was still a flowing, gleaming sable fall that her mother occasionally arranged into perfectly curled ropes down her back.

They bore all of the outer trappings of women, but they still giggled and whispered. With dignity, of course. Clark was a favored target.

“Candy?” Lana offered, reaching into her pocket and producing a tiny burlap bag. Chloe peered inside it and crowed.

“Horehound!”

“Too many sweets make you fat.” Chloe fixed him with a glare before selecting a piece of the brown sweets. 

“Maybe you need one to keep you quiet.”

“Chloe!” His protest was cut off by her quick jab with the candy, shoving it in his mouth and garbling his speech. He made a face and plucked it back out of his mouth, scowling at her.

“I don’t even like horehound!”

“Too bad. You have to eat it now,” she sang as she treated herself to a fresh piece. Lana rolled her eyes.

“CLARK!” Jonathan waved him over impatiently. Clark glared again at Chloe as she sucked on the tidbit while she held it between finger and thumb.

“Gotta go,” he tossed over his shoulder. Chloe’s voice stopped him as he was midway across the street.

“What are you doing right now?”

“Helping Pa. And we’ve got company tonight. Lex is back!” His smile was rapt. Lana sighed gustily.

“Ugh.”

“Tell him we’re honored that he could find the time to grace us peasants with his presence.”

“I will!” Clark promised as he turned on his heel and left. He just seated himself beside his father before donning his felt hat and riding off in their wagon.

“What does he see in him as a friend?”

“Dunno,” Chloe shrugged as Lana dipped into the candy bag.

“Sure was excited.”

“You didn’t ask him.”

“It wasn’t the right time,” she sniffed. Chloe sighed.

Whitney’s arrival mere moments later seemed to confirm Chloe’s assumption. She made her excuses, then quickly made herself scarce.

 

*

“I wasn’t expecting this. It’s beautiful,” Oliver admitted as he accompanied Alex down the path toward the Kent farmhouse. Jonathan owned five acres of land, complete with a tidy paddock of cows, a tiny henhouse and a proud, large red barn that was Clark’s refuge from the rest of the world. Alex heard Biscuit nickering from the stable as they approached. Clark’s now geriatric dog, Shelby, wagged his russet tail and barked a greeting. She trotted up slowly, whining in her throat for attention. Alex knelt and beckoned to her.

“C’mere, girl.” He gave her a thorough rub, ruffling her floppy ears. She responded in kind by licking his nose. Oliver grinned as Alex sputtered and made a face.

“Still popular with the ladies.”

“Just this lady,” he corrected him. “I don’t even have to play her a song.” He rose and snapped his fingers. She followed him, eventually padding along by his side.

The air was still arid and warm, even though the sun was somewhat lower in the sky. Alex watched the shifting clouds with a hint of foreboding. Oliver felt it, too.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was gonna storm.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, Oll.” Alex still loathed thunderstorms.

They made him feel weak. Insignificant.

“You love trouble.” His voice suggested intimacy and dark nights, hands held and whispered words. Their relationship was vaguer than ever.

Oliver was his best friend, and at times, his worst enemy. His frustration peaked and bloomed whenever Dinah Lance and her chatty friends showed up in the school’s study with their mothers or chaperones; he watched jealously as she flirted with Oliver under the guise of polite talk.

He knew his feelings for him were wrong, in some way. A man didn’t fall in love with a _man_ that way.

A man fell in love with a woman like Clark’s ma, Martha. A woman who was warm and sweet and caring, with soft eyes and a gentle smile. Or a woman like his own mo-

No. He couldn’t think about his mother today. His eyes would give him away to Clark, that he was still broken.

He’d never quite given up the idea of Clark putting him on a pedestal, and he didn’t want him to stop. And that was that.

The thought made him straighten up proudly and made his strides more brisk.

“Look sharp.” They were mere yards from the door to the farmhouse when they heard a sharp whistle.

“Shelby! Here, girl,” Clark cried from the barn.

“Is that his father?”

“No,” Alex replied. The voice was wrong; same inflections as Jonathan’s, but a different pitch. Just as deep, but smooth and youthful.

Shelby wagged her tail and barked, breaking free from Alex’s side. Clark came barreling out of the barn, beaming as he brandished a ball. She was all over herself to jump and lick his face until he drew up short.

_Alex._ Joy filled him. Time seemed to stand still as they drank in the sight of each other across the field.

Alex felt his smile crack his face. In that moment, Oliver saw “Alex the boy” again, only far removed from the melancholy loner he’d been when they first met.

_This wasn’t Clark._ It couldn’t be.

He’d only seen him twice over those hard few years since he’d left. Alex expected rosy cheeks and knobby knees and the same unaffected way Clark tended to duck his head when he was embarrassed. He loved teasing him to elicit that look.

Clark strode toward him with purpose. “Alex,” he boomed as he chucked the ball aside. Shelby scrambled for it and scooped it up in her mouth, anxious to get his attention. 

Clark had never been patient about anything. And definitely not now.

The long, even strides gave way to a run. Oliver tripped out of the way as he nearly collided with both men.

“CLARK! – OOOooof!!” 

“Lex,” Clark whispered into his collar. “You came.”

Clark’s arms gripped him against his hard, broad frame so firmly that he grew dizzy. The world seemed to spin. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t experiencing this moment, because nothing in Alex’s life was ever real that could feel this good.

His hands weren’t clapping Clark’s back in greeting. That wasn’t the scent of Martha Kent’s homemade soap mingled with fresh air and sweat tickling his nostrils, or the warm fragrance of Clark’s dark hair. It couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_ be. That wasn’t Clark, chuckling in a deep, resonant voice that gave him pleasant shivers.

“I need to breathe, Clark,” he reminded him hoarsely. His muscles held barely restrained power. Alex credited Clark’s time spent working on the farm…

His memory flashed back to the crunch of the coach’s metal frame and his mother’s screams.

_Not a hair was harmed on Clark’s head._

“Clark,” he huffed, pushing himself from the embrace abruptly. Clark looked immediately contrite. He straightened up to his full height as he finally noticed Oliver, easily looking him in the eye. And he wasn’t even finished growing yet.

“You must be Olly,” he suggested, extending his long, broad hand. They were tanned but smooth; his blunt nails were slightly dirty, something he noticed belatedly, but there was no help for it. Oliver smirked as though, he, too, noticed.

“Oliver Queen,” he corrected him. His dark eyes were haughty and sharp.

Clark hated him immediately. His smile was less eager as he shook his hand, subtly loosening his grip.

He’d learned to watch his own strength. Pa instilled it in him early. _Slow, steady and easy. No one can know, son. No one._ He cried until his cheeks were red and chapped when he’d accidentally squeezed a chick to death while he helped Ma feed the hens.

This meeting felt just as tenuous. Some of Clark’s joy fled him as he realized that he’d still need a light touch, but for different reasons.

“Look at you. You’ve grown a mile.” It was the kind of thing an uncle or aunt would have told a little boy. Unwanted heat rose up in Clark’s cheeks. Alex was smiling at him, though, rubbing his bare nape. Blue gray eyes held mischief. “How’s Lana?”

“Still running around with Chloe,” he shrugged.

“You’re smitten with her. Admit it.”

“Uh-uh! Lex!” Indignance leapt jolted through him. Oliver threw back his blond head and laughed.

“A ladies’ man, eh?”

“Our Clark’s too humble to admit it,” Alex explained, clapping Clark on the back. “You promised me one of your mother’s fine dinners.”

“Beef stew.” He almost added “your favorite.”

“Oll, you haven’t lived,” Alex promised. The two of them walked slightly ahead of Clark, missing the hurt look in his eyes. He couldn’t explain it, but somehow, he’d been shut out.

Martha was just removing a pan of biscuits from the oven when Alex peered around the edge of the doorframe and murmured “Could we prevail upon your hospitality, Mrs. Kent?”

“Alexander!” Martha cried, nearly dropping the skillet. She set it down hastily, wiped her hands on her apron, and hurried to tug him inside the kitchen. She hugged him no less effusively than Clark had, drawing back slightly to lay her palm against his cheek. “You’ve become quite the young man.” He glowed beneath her clucks of praise and her minute tug at the lap of his suit as she dusted off the fine wool.

“Hang up your coat, son. You must be roasting,” Jonathan boomed as he strode in through the back door. He nodded to Oliver. “Mind introducing us?”

“His name’s Oliver,” Clark told him. “Oliver Queen.”

“He’s my roommate at school.”

“I’ve put up with him for seven years, listening to him snore and talk in his sleep.” Oliver shook Jonathan’s hand. Clark’s father’s smile was level and smooth.

“Make yourselves at home. Clark, wash up.” Dismissed again. Clark fumed all the way to the basin.

Martha watched her guests occasionally through dinner as Alex regaled him of his months away from Smallville.

“…and then Oliver turned green the first time we had snails in Paris. Escargot,” he explained. 

“Alex was merciless. Hasn’t let me live it down yet.”

“You won’t have to worry about that here, son. Martha didn’t include anything crawling in the food.”

Clark smiled weakly over his father’s joke. Martha watched him carefully.

His eyes followed Alex’s movements and riveted themselves on his face every time he spoke. Then he looked crestfallen whenever Oliver interjected anything or steered the talk toward himself. _Odd…_

She wanted to mark it up to the age difference. True, Clark was well out of his childhood, but not yet an independent young man. 

He talked about Alex incessantly. Whenever they were together, she witnessed a bond between them that she could only call hero worship. Clark tagged along with him like a puppy.

Clark was already breaking hearts, in his own right, but strangely…

Martha uncomfortably excused herself from the table to bring them a pitcher of milk. As she returned, she mutely laid her hand on Clark’s shoulder and squeezed.

“How long do you plan to stay in town?” 

“Four days, sir. We’ve exams when we get back.”

“Be prepared.”

“Yessir.”

“We still plan to lollygag a bit, while we’re here. Alex promised to show me the mines.” Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth settled into a scowl.

“Alex found out the hard way that it isn’t a good idea to play and be careless in those mines.”

“We aren’t gonna play. I just want a tour.” Alex was disconcerted, toying with the last lump of potato on his plate.

“I want to go, too.”

“No, Clark.” Jonathan’s refusal was low but final. Clark fumed; the humiliation was fresh and sharp.

“I wanna do something with Alex and Olly!” 

“Let them invite you, sweetheart,” Martha reminded him. “Be polite, Clark.” He gnawed the inner corner of his lip and exhaled a noisy sigh.

To Alex, he looked for a moment like the same beautiful, petulant child who talked him into riding a horse.

“Of course you’re invited, Clark.” His eyes and tone were soft.

“That’s all right, Alex. Clark can spend time with you somewhere else. Just not the mines.” Clark looked ready to storm off.

They took their leave. Clark removed himself and sulked in the stable with Biscuit. Alex felt unsettled at Clark’s terse goodbye, but Oliver encouraged him into the coach once they made their thanks to the Kents.

“I’m ready to fall into bed.”

“So am I.” Their ride home was charged and silent. Alex lost track of time at Martha’s table; it was well after dark.

When they entered the darkened house, Alex noticed the absence of whiskey fumes and gave silent thanks.

“Has your father gone to bed?”

“No. He’s gone out.” That was certainly his reason for staying sober long enough to leave. The knot in Alex’s stomach finally began to loosen. Oliver’s footsteps were close behind him as they ascended the stairs.

When they reached the guest suite, Oliver’s things were nowhere to be found.

“Damn you, Father,” Alex hissed.

“Please don’t tell me my best coat’s missing, Alex!” Olly’s tone was anxious. Alex stiffly led them down the hallway toward his father’s quarters. He peered inside.

It was dark. There was no recent scent of kerosene from a lantern to indicate he’d been there recently.

“Come on.”

Oliver was brimming with questions as they doubled back to the opposite end of the hallway, toward a second set of recessed stairs.

“My room.”

“Fair enough.” Oliver hoped it wasn’t cramped, and felt grateful that he wouldn’t have to room alone in the dark, imposing house.

Alex’s room felt like him. His wardrobe was neat as a pin. A solitary photograph of his mother peered out serenely from a silver frame on the cherry bureau. The bookcase was full of leather-bound texts from authors Oliver wasn’t entirely familiar with; Alex was a voracious reader.

Without preamble, Alex turned his back to Olly and began to take off his clothes. He laid his jacket over the chair with a sigh and hung his hat from a peg.

“Are you all right?” Olly murmured.

“I can’t explain it, Oll,” he told him, “but no. I’m not.”

“Interesting family,” Olly sniffed.

“They’re very dear to me.”

“Especially Clark,” he mused. Alex stiffened, then unfastened his trousers. His toes were already screaming in relief, free from the confines of his gleaming leather boots.

“He was my friend from the moment we met, whether I wanted him to be or not.”

“Sure,” he agreed easily. He watched Alex disrobe with hungry, dark eyes.

“There’s your bag, Oll. Grab your nightshirt.” Alex nodded to the once-missing satchel behind the door. Alex worked on the buttons of his shirt, one by one, stewing in his troubled thoughts. He stared down at his own hands, and was startled when he felt Oliver still them.

“Alex.”

His grip was warm, firm and familiar. “Look at me, Alex.”

“Olly…” His mouth went dry.

His body tingled and every nerve was alert and craving…something. 

Oliver.

He wanted Oliver.

He felt him, barely inches between them. He pried Alex’s hands away from the shirt buttons, and Alex shivered as his hand edged inside his shirt, slowly sliding over his chest. His heart pounded beneath his fingers; Oliver was transfixed by the working of Alex’s throat, watching his Adam’s apple bounce. His breathing quickened, and he closed his eyes against the smoldering, pleading look on Oliver’s face.

“I don’t need it.”

“Olly.” Alex’s voice was ragged, even desperate. He didn’t shrink back as Oliver’s warm, thick palm skimmed over him in a rough caress. It wasn’t the awkward touch he remembered from the day at the creek. That had been sweet. Guileless and untried.

Oliver knew what he was doing to him. His eyes dilated and he felt his hot breathing steam out from his nostrils as he roamed over Alex’s taut chest. Alex shivered, but from heat, not any chill from the room, and he felt a tightening between his legs that was almost painful.

There had been other moments during other nights, but none of them felt so raw, or so primal. He couldn’t resist the siren call of Oliver’s touch or his low rumble of need as his lips feathered the corner of his mouth.

“Come to bed, Alex.”

“Let me fix you a space to sleep, or call Mrs. Per-“

“I want to lie down with you. In that bed. Don’t tell me no.” Alex’s hands were fisted at his sides, aching to grab him and crush him against his body.

“I don’t know if this is right.” The words burned in his mind. _I want you. I need you, Oliver._ Visions of his father’s face looming over him, eyes glazed and mocking, made him jerk from his reverie and away from his roommate.

“Alex!”

“Promise me,” Alex said. Pain etched itself across his features. He looked vulnerable and lost. “Promise me, Oll, if I tell you we have to stop…then we stop.”

“Alex, don’t be ridiculous, of course we-“

“I mean it. I mean it from the bottom of my soul, Olly. I’ve told you about what happened. Here, in this room. It’s…hard to…I don’t know how to tell you how this room…” Oliver watched the flood gates give way as every emotion from those nights washed over Alex. He turned his back on him and tugged his shirt around himself again. In the dim light from the oil lamp, Alex’s fair skin seemed to glow with a golden light; Oliver watched him transfixed. The smoothness of his bald head in that light made him appear to wear a halo. What he showed him of his profile from that angle as he looked back was troubled, but beautiful. That was Alex. A lifetime of hell behind him, but he still held so much grace that the angels watching over him must have sighed.

“I promise you,” Olly murmured, “that I will never, ever hurt you, Alex. I won’t touch you in any other way than how you wish to be touched. But I’ll want to hold you. I’ll want to lay with you. And I want you to touch me so badly, Alex. So badly.”

Their friendship walked that narrow, precarious line. This could bring them closer, or tear them apart.

“Olly.” Alex licked his lips. “I want to be with you.”

Oliver approached him and Alex felt his fingertips graze his back through the thin shirt. His face tensed and he closed his eyes, willing him to continue.

He felt the faint press of Olly’s chest against his shoulder blades, bumping him slightly as he reached for his wrist. He lifted it and worked open the small button on the cuff. He released him and selected the other; his fingers felt warm against Alex’s pulse. They grazed his skin as he gingerly tugged at his shirt, peeling it down his shoulders, baring him. He traced the sprinkle of freckles he had, and tingling sensations tumbled into Alex’s gut. His breath hitched, and he heard his shirt drop to the floor and felt Oliver’s breath mist over his skin. His arm was caressed from the crest of his shoulder to the knob of his elbow, painstakingly slow. Oliver gradually kneaded him, sculpting Alex’s muscles with his hands.

“Oll…I don’t know if I can do this right.”

“Neither do I.” His voice was sheepish. Humor gripped Alex, and he laughed. Oliver joined him on a low guffaw, and his hands crept around his waist. Alex felt him smile against his nape. Arousal replaced amusement as Oliver’s lips tasted him. His abdomen twitched beneath Olly’s hands, and his manhood enviously throbbed with want.

His hands drifted to Alex’s waist, gripping him as his tongue darted out to taste him; he lapped up his salty flavors at his throat, giving in to the almost pagan urge. He couldn’t have known it would excite Alex, but it gave Oliver much pleasure, being this intimate with him in the quiet bedroom.

Outside, a wind kicked up, whistling through the trees. Oliver’s prediction had some true. Alex smelled rain in the air, its fragrance blowing inside from the hall window that Mrs. Perry left slightly cracked.

The hesitant kisses grew firmer, hungrier against Alex’s flesh, and his pelvis bucked in response. Oliver’s shirt was open slightly; the buttons dug into his back. Alex turned by slow increments to face him, still doubting that what they were doing was real until he looked into Oliver’s eyes. Oliver’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted it to Alex’s cheek.

Alex nodded his permission, and Oliver leaned over and met him halfway. Alex’s lips were gently pursed for the kiss, but Oliver’s were slack and hot to better taste him. It was awkward until both of them grew more comfortable, more confident, bodies straining toward each other. Alex felt need more keenly, restless at the sensations coursing through him. Everywhere his roommate touched burned.

They paused, shucking pants and breeches, finally daring not to avert their eyes from each other’s nudity out of long habit.

“Don’t be shy, Alex.” Olly’s grin was lopsided as he tugged on Alex’s hand. Alex’s feet lurched him forward, afraid yet eager. He stumbled against him and groaned at the feel of Olly’s hot skin pressed fully against his. The momentum made them bump against the bed; Oliver let it carry them down, landing on the soft quilt.

They followed each other’s cues and low sounds of want, content at first to stroke each other. Alex tensed up and gasped in shock as Oliver reached down for him, barely enclosing his manhood in a loose fist. His arousal waned and he scrambled back up toward the pillow. His blue-gray eyes were frantic.

“Easy, Alex! I’m sorry…”

“I’m trying. I want…I want this, I just don’t…I don’t know how.” Oliver watched him patiently, but felt restless for more of his touch. He pacified himself by arranging a pillow more comfortably so he could prop himself up, staring down into Alex’s face. His features were still tight and closed. Olly sighed.

“Show me, then.”

“What?”

“Show me how you want it.” He palmed Alex’s cheek fondly, then poked him in the armpit. Alex yelped, scowling at him. 

“Not like that…”

“Okay. Not like that,” he agreed, grinning at him until Alex began to smile back. “C’mon. Don’t just lay there. Do something.”

“Who’s going to just lie here?” There was a hint of challenge in his voice. Alex let his eyes roam over Oliver’s body and felt himself grow stiff. Oliver was in similar straits; his erection bobbed thick and a deep rosy pink. He watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed, and there was a nervous tick in his jaw under Alex’s careful scrutiny.

“Alex…” 

“Do you think of me?” Alex brushed Oliver’s chest, exploring the texture of the sparse, sandy brown hair on his chest. Olly shivered. Slowly they shifted on the bed again, Oliver gently lying back and Alex hovering over him, relaxing against him as he gave him a probing kiss. His fingers roamed over him uncertainly but Oliver still felt excitement and anticipation twisting in his stomach. His skin and abdomen twitched and jumped as Alex found his nipple, flicking it with his fingertip. “Do you think of me when you…” His eyes flicked over him, and he nodded toward Oliver’s throbbing sex.

“Yeah. I do. Lots.”

Alex traced his fingers over Oliver’s muscles and gradually flattened his palm against him, kneading him and rubbing his thumb over the edge of dark hair below his belly. Nervous excitement raced through Oliver’s stomach at his furtive touch. His penis slowly jerked and bobbed toward Alex’s hand, stiffening and growing. His flesh was a deep pink and felt smooth and silky as Alex tentatively ran his hand over it. He pulled away a moment until Oliver took his hand.

“It’s all right.” He cleared his throat and Alex saw raw need in his face. “It feels good. Please do it again.” He guided him back to his throbbing sex and coaxed him to wrap his hand around the warm shaft. Their hands linked and moved together to stroke him until Olly released him. A low cry escaped him as Alex resumed the task himself, gently molding him, tugging on him. He hardened further within his grip, and Oliver’s breath sped up. Above him, Alex’s eyes were dark with wonder and concern.

“I want it to be right.” Alex was ever the perfectionist.

“Damn it, Alex, just don’t stop!” he hissed. Oliver threw his head back and his face was taut with strain as Alex continued to tug on him and pump him. Alex’s pupils dilated, nearly turning his gray-blue eyes black, and his face descended to claim Oliver’s mouth.

They shifted and rolled, melding their flesh as they groped and kneaded and stroked and lapped at each other. Alex made the inadvertent discovery as Oliver lay atop him that even the most gentle thrust of Olly’s hips brought them into tingling contact, pressing their stiffened flesh together and creating luscious friction. Oliver gazed down at him with the movement, then thrust back, belly to belly, cock to cock. Pressure built within Alex and he throbbed for Oliver, pulsing, rising, pushing against him, and it was oh, soooo goooooooood…

He came in spurts, draining his seed and painting Oliver’s belly. He arched and jerked, staring into Oliver’s wide eyes, beseeching him…either to explain what happened or to continue, Olly didn’t know.

“Alex…?” He clung to Oliver as his climax rose and swept through him, making his toes curl. Oliver rode the rocking sensation of Alex’s body as he gripped him. 

“Olly? Olly!” He licked dry lips, and his voice was trembling. Oliver was absently stroking his fingers through the stickiness coating his stomach and huffed. A smile spread across his face that Alex didn’t expect.

“You look funny.” Alex was flummoxed.

“Olly!”

“It’s just…your face.” He playfully bumped Alex’s nose with his, ignoring his scowl. “You looked so surprised.”

He pushed himself against Alex again experimentally; Alex was still overstimulated and clutched his hips to make him stop.

“Too much! Too much.”

“I’m hurting, Alex. I feel like I’m about to burst…oh, God!” Alex rolled him off for a moment and reached down to sheathe Oliver in his fist.

Olly coaxed him once again and guided his hand, and his erection was back in full bloom, swollen and tender. Alex tightened his hold on him and pulled, milking him.

“I want it to be right,” Alex repeated once more as he jerked him off. Drops of pearly fluid leaked from the slit in the plump head of Oliver’s cock as he pumped him. He hated to fumble, and he knew his efforts were rough and untried.

“Faster,” Olly gasped. “Harder. Ah, God, Alex! Please!” His legs were sprawled and jerking as he clutched the covers. Alex was undoing him, and it felt so fierce and so good that he lost himself in it. Alex was thrown off his pace a few times, and his wrist grew limp, but he carried on. Oliver’s groans and cries of pleasure wouldn’t let him stop.

He erupted in a hot, sticky torrent over Alex’s fist. His climax hit him hard and long, tearing hoarse cries from his throat. Alex stared down at him with a hint of fear.

“Olly…?”

“Oh, God, Alex…oh, God. Oh, God, Alex.” Oliver gasped for breath, panting and euphoric. 

“Don’t swear, Olly,” Alex huffed. Oliver’s eyes snapped open from their half-lidded state and he nearly choked. A crack of laughter escaped his mouth, and he swatted Alex upside the back of his bald head.

“Bastard.” Alex sighed, and his smile was thoughtful. He sprawled next to Oliver and felt keenly satisfied when he drew him close. Their feet twined together and stomachs bumped as they settled beneath the coverlet.

 

Downstairs, Lionel filled his cherry pipe with tobacco while he listened to the soft chatter between his son and guest.

“You forget yourself, Alexander,” he murmured into the darkness. The match’s flame illuminated his sardonic, weathered face as he lit the pipe and drew pungent clouds of smoke into his lungs.

Now, he had a bargaining chip.


	9. Dark Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Festivities. And secrets.

“Can you take us to the barber’s today?” Alex looked up from his leather-bound edition of Tennyson’s poems as Oliver paced around his suite, collecting various articles of clothing.

“Whyever for?” He cocked his brow over the edge of his book, and Olly caught the quirk of his lips.

“Why the hell do you think? Some of us need a haircut. I’m about due.” Oliver cocked his head and turned in the mirror atop the vanity, craning his neck to see where his hair dusted his collar.

“Don’t be touchy. All right. We’ll go to the barber’s. Such as it is. Don’t expect pomade and hot towels, roommate of mine.” Oliver made a face.

“How bad is it?”

“Our barber’s also the town dentist. Don’t give him reason to look in your mouth.”

“Right. Maybe I’ll wait til we get back to Star City and go to see father’s barber.”

“That’s too long. We’ll go today.” He clapped his book shut, brandishing it at him. “I’ll bring along some entertainment.”

“You should be getting ready.” They’d slept in til an ungodly hour, and Alex awoke with Oliver’s arm draped heavily around his waist, warm breath steaming his nape. The morning blurred and then gradually brightened into sharp focus as he stretched his limbs. 

_Oliver._ He had been with Oliver. _Mated_ with him. A cold flush swept over his skin at the realization, and Alex suddenly needed to get out of bed. He struggled from Olly’s embrace, even while his body cried out in protest at the loss of his warm skin and strong grip. Oliver groaned complaints under his breath, fixing Alex with a squinty glare as he rolled onto his back. He yawned and stretched loudly.

“What’s the matter with you? What time is it?”

“Late enough. We’ll miss breakfast. Father takes his before seven.”

“Y’don’t even wanna eat with your father,” Oliver slurred, still muzzy with interrupted sleep. He flung his arm over his head, pinning Alex’s eyes to his bare chest and belly. Olly was beautifully sculpted; staring at him made Alex’s crotch tighten with remembered need…

He turned his back on him quickly and removed a rough wool blanket from the chair in the corner, wrapping it around his waist. “Go on ahead and get up. Get ready. You can use the tub first.”

“Fine,” he murmured back as he stumbled from the bed. He stretched again as he stood, and again Alex found it tempting just to stare at him. Guilt warred with want. 

So they’d bathed and broken their fast. Lionel had already left for work, planning a visit to the mines to check the lode his foreman reported the week before.

For the moment, they were left to their own devices, watching the sun grow higher in the sky.

The bed sagged beneath Alex as Oliver sat on the edge. He plucked the book from his hands and laid it aside. “Get up, lazy bones.”

“Make me.” Alex was enjoying his loll in bed too much to want to move. Oliver’s eyes took on a dangerous gleam…

“ _GAAAHHH!_ ” Before Alex could blink he was smothered under the thick down pillow as Oliver pelted him with it, leaning into each swing.

“You…promised me…a…haircut! And time…out of the house!” WHACK! WHACK! BOFF! Alex rolled out of the way, falling off the bed and staggering to his feet. He lunged for the bolster cushion on the chair in the corner and brandished it.

“Prepare for battle, Mr. Queen.”

Feathers flew. Their footsteps thudded across the floorboards and they nearly knocked over every piece of furniture in the room. Oliver and Alex were breathless with guffaws and smothered curses as they pelted each other. Alex’s body smarted from repeated contact with the bolster cushion as Oliver gained the upper hand, disarming him with some difficulty. Oliver tackled him, knocking him off his feet. Seven years of etiquette training went flying out the door in the span of a half an hour.

They panted for breath, chests heaving and eyes bright. Alex snickered every time he looked up into Oliver’s flushed face. Olly, in the meantime, braced the half-folded pillow against Alex’s chest where he lay on his back, easily defeated.

“Get your shoes and hat. We’re going out.” Alex sighed, and his smile dropped slightly, growing thoughtful.

“I want to show you the sights, such as they are. Olly…I’m…not that well liked here.”

“So? How’s that different from school?” Alex grunted in disgust, reaching up to clout him, but Olly deflected him with the pillow.

“Fine. I’ll be ready in a minute. Let me change my shirt.” Reluctantly Olly let him up. Alex crossed the room and rummaged through his wardrobe. He discarded the white shirt that Olly helped him wrinkle and laid it over the chair. Olly watched his long, bare back, enjoying the play of lean muscles as he moved, mentally counting the freckles that sprayed over his fair skin. Something about him was so vulnerable…

Alex never heard him as he crept up behind him; he gasped at the feel of Olly’s fingers groping at his waist and tugging him back. Alex struggled slightly. “I need to get dressed, Oll!”

“Fine. Get dressed in a minute.” He wrapped his arms around his waist again, and Alex sighed gustily.

“You’re making that hard.” The feel of Olly’s chest pressed at his back was still odd to him, yet addicting. “It might help if someone got out of the way.”

“You feel so good, Alex.” Oliver’s voice was thick and held a note of passion. His lips traced the line of Alex’s throat; his nose bumped and nuzzled him behind his ear while his smooth palm explored his stomach.

“Oll…”

“Keep this off,” Olly suggested as he pried the fresh shirt from Alex’s fingers. “I like you this way.”

“Let me get ready.”

“Alex…I like you.” The admission made Alex stop fidgeting. He stood stock still and craned his neck to peer back at Oliver over his shoulder.

“Olly, what we did last night…I don’t know-“

“What? What’s wrong with what we did?”

“Men don’t…just…”

“Some do. We always have. Just not like that,” Oliver pointed out, musing. He sighed into Alex’s neck. “Don’t be a baby about it. No one heard. No one saw. And it felt damned good.”

“Don’t swear, Oll.” It was his favorite scold. He fell back on it now. Oliver leaned around and pecked him on the cheek before releasing him. He handed him his shirt.

“Make yourself presentable in case we run into your father.”

 

*

No other boy in Smallville could play catch with himself. Shelby was dozing in the barn, and Clark had a few spare minutes. Back and forth he ran, throwing the ball sharply enough to make it sting his palms every time he caught it. The wind rustled his shirt and whistled in his ears with each sprint, back and forth across the paddock. It felt good.

“Clark! C’mere, son.” His father beckoned to him from the barn, holding a hammer aloft.

It didn’t bother him to abandon the game. Pete was occupied, working at Luthor’s General Mercantile as a stock boy. Clark dashed back to the barn in a split second. His father clapped his shoulder and beckoned him inside.

“Come and see,” he said. His gait was proud, less stooped, but Clark still took in the signs that his father was succumbing to age by small degrees. He led him toward his work bench, and Clark saw a large china cabinet with a breakfront standing beside it. It wasn’t yet sanded or stained, but its construction was complete.

“You made it for Ma!”

“Your mother has lots of nice things she’ll want to put inside it. I think she’ll like it!”

“It’s nice,” Clark breathed, stroking the wood and brushing off the dust.

“Here. I brought this along with me.” Jonathan strode to his tool shelf along the wall and removed a sheet of paper. It was one of Clark’s drawings. Clark looked at it, then Jonathan, puzzled.

“I want it engraved here,” Jonathan nodded, pointing to the topmost drawer. “It’s best if you do it before we stain it.”

“I will, Pa.” Clark made himself comfortable on the work bench and concentrated his green eyes on the breakfront door.

Slowly, his irises changed, glowing like red-hot coals, and a needle-fine beam of blazing heat streamed through the air, making the dust particles dance before striking the unvarnished cedar. Jonathan watched transfixed as the beam followed the movement of his son’s eyes, burning a dark trail wherever he looked. The smell of scorched wood reached his nostrils and Jonathan rubbed his nose, but he never took his eyes off his son as he recreated his drawing on the breakfront, capturing it for posterity on Jonathan’s gift to his mother.

Martha’s lilies of the valley now graced the breakfront, still smoking slightly as Clark blew on it to cool its surface. “How’s that, Pa?”

“Ma’s gonna lov- _nnnnggghhh_!” Clark’s eyes widened as Jonathan clutched his chest and staggered back from the bench. He dropped his hammer with a sharp thud; Clark paid it no mind, and he caught his father before he could collapse.

“MA!” He bundled Jonathan close to his chest, watching confusion bloom in his eyes, which watered slightly. His face held a gray pallor that petrified his son. Panic choked his heart in his chest.

“MAAA!!” Clark cried out again, this time louder and more desperate. He whispered prayers and pleas and gripped his father tightly to him until he heard his mother’s quick footsteps and her low, anguished cry as she ran into the barn.

 

*

True to his promise, Alex immersed himself in one of his beloved books, _Moby Dick_ by Herman Melville, while Oliver indulged in his haircut. At a table in the back of the barber shop, three older men played cards, content to avoid the gaming hall in the back of the saloon across the street.

The day was still and hot; the breeze the townfolk craved was nowhere to be found.

A powerful surge of air rustled their clothing and tousled their hair; an elderly man seated on the stoop outside the blacksmith’s frowned at his freshly lit cigar, now extinguished, and he batted at the dust and grit that flew into his eyes.

Clark’s lungs burned.

He had a single purpose: Get the doctor. Get him _now._ His ma’s face was pale and desperate while she crooned over her husband, stroking his cheek and gripping his hand. Tears ran down her nose as she bowed over him.

Discretion was less important than his end goal. He still rounded the tiny office and banged on the back door.

Alex rose from the battered chair in the barber shop, having already grown bored. Oliver decided on a shoe shine, an addition to their errand that made Alex roll his eyes. The patrons of the shop were already eyeing him askance, and he felt them staring at his baldness, measuring him. Silently mocking him.

_There’s that queer Luthor boy. Thinks he’s great shakes, attending that expensive school in Metropolis._

“Olly? I need some air.”

“Don’t take too long.” Oliver feigned interest as the barber related the damage done to local crops by a huge flock of crows the summer before. He watched Alex depart with a sigh.

Alex gratefully left the stuffy confines of the shop, but realized with disgust that it was almost as uncomfortable outside. He rounded the shop, strolling into the shade from the roof.

Voices caught his attention, both male. He recognized Clark’s and noticed the frantic pitch and inflections. Alex crossed the dirt lot joining the property between the shops and found Dr. Lee listening to Clark with concern written on his features.

“My pa fell. He’s sick! Please come home with me and help him!”

“Easy, son. How did you get here? Slow down and tell me what happened.”

“Clark?” Alex approached and didn’t hesitate to reach for him, cupping his shoulder firmly to get his attention. Clark spun on him, and his eyes widened further. Pain filled him at the agony in Clark’s face.

“Pa’s sick!”

Alex’s lips moved before he’d even decided what to say. “Stay here. I’ll summon a coach.”

For the first time that Alex could remember, when he returned with the coach, Clark was long gone. Dr. Lee confessed that he’d no sooner packed his medicine bag than he saw that the boy was missing.

Alex’s thoughts flashed back to that day. That horrible day.

_A strange flash of movement caught his eye, and he blinked. He watched for it again._ Tingling cold seized him, and he wavered, swallowing hard.

_“Leave him alone! You’re a BAD man! Stop hurting him! STOP!”_

It was so long ago.

He’d buried it. Tucked it into a box and locked it away.

His body stiffened, remembering the feel of a young, sturdy body, smaller than his, covering him protectively.

Alex was dazed when Dr. Lee nagged him into the coach, ending his reverie. Alex then gave crisp directions to the Kent farm to his driver, and they sped down the road.

 

*

Clark’s father’s hand felt limp and cool in his soft grip. He only risked a faint squeeze, and a fat tear rolled down his face, skimming the corner of his mouth.

“I called the doc, Pa. He’s coming.”

“Good boy,” Martha soothed. She busied herself, covering Jonathan with a light blanket. She was wringing out a wet cotton cloth as she asked, “What happened?”

“Finished…working,” Jonathan gasped. She was too distracted to notice the breakfront.

“You stayed out here too long, Jonathan!”

“He wasn’t out here that long, Ma, I swear!”

“Clark…don’t swear. I won’t have it.” Her voice was clipped; Clark, chastened, hung his head and sniffed back more tears, wiping them on his sleeve.

Jonathan’s pallor was just as gray when Alex’s coach arrived outside. While his driver puzzled out where to tether the horses, Alex scrambled outside, tugging Dr. Lee’s coat to make him move more quickly.

Martha had never seen young Alex so unsettled or rumpled, only used to seeing the immaculate, too-serious boy with perfect manners who still made her lose sleep at night. Normally calm, solemn blue-gray eyes were full of fear and shock.

“How on earth did you get back here so fas-“ Dr. Lee’s words died on his lips as he took in the sight of Jon Kent lying on the barn floor. “Jonathan,” he murmured. “It’s all right, man, just rest. Let me take a look at you.” He pored through his medicine bag. Clark’s anxious face and clenched fists were a distraction Martha didn’t need, something he saw from the tight press of her lips and the way she fought for composure.

Before Alex even realized he’d touched him, his fingers slowly closed around Clark’s shoulder, shaking him. Clark slowly raised his head to face him, and limpid green eyes pleaded with him. _Why?_

“You came,” he whispered. Alex nodded. Without another word, Clark covered Alex’s fingers and clutched them, mindful as ever of his strength.

Right now, he needed Alex’s.

 

*

Three hours later, Dr. Lee was bundled back into the coach with the stern injunction to notify Oliver of his whereabouts when he reached the Luthor home.

“Come along now, Alexander. Your father’s no doubt apoplectic with worry.”

“I’m needed here.”

“Mr. Kent’s comfortable and resting; and Clark’s mother might need some time to think and recover from all the excitement.”

“Clark might need a friend,” he reminded him. “Father can send another coach. Or Clark can offer me a ride on saddleback. I’m not afraid of horses,” he boasted. His voice was wry, almost brittle. Dr. Lee looked into wintry gray eyes and felt unsettled that they occupied such a young face.

“You need to think responsibly, son.”

“I have. You’re here.” Alex removed his jacket and hung it over a peg along the barn wall. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t stay too long.” He nodded back toward the house. “I’ve left medicine for Martha to give him and I intend to see him again tomorrow. By then, I expect that you will have returned to your father’s home, Alexander.”

“I understand, sir.” Dr. Lee was just climbing into the coach before Alex remembered another vital detail. “Doctor?”

“What is it, son?”

“The bill. Send it to my father.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do…”

“Doctor. I’m a Luthor. If I’ve learned anything from my father, it’s that money’s only worth what it can do.” Tentatively, he offered the aging physician his hand; after a long, measured glance between them, Dr. Lee shook it.

The sound of the coach rumbling up the dirt road followed Alex back inside the house. Muted voices led him toward the back hall. Hesitantly he edged closer to the bedroom door, feeling guilty about possibly catching Clark’s family indisposed.

He peered around the corner of the doorframe and watched them. Jonathan was lying on his back, propped up on pillows. Martha knelt beside him, stroking his brow solicitously and staring into his face. Alex flushed as she bent and kissed the crease between his eyebrows, letting her lips linger on his skin and closing her eyes. The moment was precious, intimate, and not meant for him to witness. 

He turned to leave, and saw Clark looming in the darkened hallway. His face still bore tearstains and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Come on,” Alex whispered. “Let’s give them a minute, okay?” He reached for him, wrapping his fingers around his upper arm, surprised at the solid, broad feel of it. Clark seemed to follow him in a stupor, smothering a sniffle as they made their way back outside.

The night was still warm and humid, dark enough to see the stars.

“I’ll need to get back soon.” Clark paused in the act of pouring a glass of water from the pitcher.

“Lex! Please. Don’t leave.”

“I won’t yet. Not until you get settled. Olly’s going to be worried.” Clark’s eyes beseeched him and filled with confusion.

“He doesn’t know you’re here?”

“I’m a poor host,” he remarked, but his slight smile died at Clark’s groan of anguish.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry you left him…”

“No. No, no, Clark, don’t feel sorry. I don’t want you to feel bad about Olly. We’ll have time to spend together while he’s here. All I wanted to do was take him to the caves.”

“I know. You said.” Clark looked miserable. Alex’s brow crumpled and he covered Clark’s scalp with his palm, tousling his soft, dark hair.

“I wanted to do something with the three of us, but I didn’t know what. Clark?” Clark turned his face away from him, and Alex saw his shoulders slump. He exhaled a slow, frustrated breath.

“It’s okay. You and Olly…you probably do neat stuff all the time. He’s older than me.” Clark put away the glass without pouring himself a drink. “You get to go anywhere you want.” The conversation from the night before at the dinner table still rankled.

“Clark,” he said. “Clark.” Alex repeated himself more loudly, urging him to listen. “Know why I came back into town?” Clark flicked him a furtive glance before looking away again. He shrugged. “You know why.”

“I guess so.”

“I came to see you.” Clark still had his back turned to him. His fist rested on his hip and he plowed his fingers through the back of his hair as he pondered Alex’s words. “It’s good to see you. You’re so different now.”

“Yeah. I guess.” His voice was so unsure. Clark cleared his throat, making his Adam’s apple bob.

“Don’t worry about me and Oll,” he assured him. “We’ll have a little time…” His words trailed off as Clark sank into a chair beside the kitchen table and leaned his elbows on it. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, and after a delayed pause his broken sob filled the room, piercing Alex.

He couldn’t not touch him. It dawned on him that it wasn’t the first time it happened that day as he hovered at his back.

“Clark.” Alex’s voice was low, familiar and soothing. “It’s all right, Clark. He’ll be all right.” His hands drifted to those broad shoulders again, sliding over crests of muscle and the warm flesh beneath his gingham shirt. He felt the heave of his body and the thrum of his sobs working their way up from his chest, and it cut him deeply. “Don’t worry. Your pa’s all right now.”

“He-he fell,” Clark stammered, voice cracking on a hiccup. From his vantage point, Alex saw clear droplets hit the surface of Martha’s pine table. “He just stopped t-talking and fell…couldn’t breathe, he said he couldn’t breathe…” Alex’s hands absently followed the throb of Clark’s pulse into his taut neck, kneading the tendons. His fingers stroked the short, baby fine tendrils of hair at his nape. Clark straightened slightly, grinding away the tears from his eyes with his knuckles, but he was still unable to face Alex. His body betrayed his needs, inclining it toward his friend’s solid warmth, craving its succor.

Clark leaned back and lifted his face, beseeching him. His face, even stricken with grief and fear, was beautiful, walking the edge of lost innocence. His peaches and cream skin was blotchy, and his eyes were still damp from crying, making him look so vulnerable. His fingers cupped Alex’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing it for reassurance, just to prove that he was really tangible, close. For him. It wasn’t enough.

Clark’s fingers walked crab-like up Alex’s wrist and forearm, tangling in his rolled up shirt sleeve, clutching him, tugging him closer until he could wind his hand around his shoulder. Alex bent and leaned over him, heeding his grip and felt Clark’s arm loop up around his neck; his own arms followed, winding themselves around Clark’s body. He palmed Clark’s heart, feeling its rapid beats and skips. Clark still smelled like his mother’s soap, and faintly of peppermint as Alex leaned his cheek against his smooth neck.

“I’m here, Clark,” Alex soothed. “You did what you were supposed to do. You helped your father, and he’s all right.”

“I was…so…afraid,” he choked. Alex’s eyes misted, tears pricking at them, but he wouldn’t let them escape.

“No. You were brave.” _And fast._

“I m-might not have made it.”

“But you did.” Alex searched for the words from the remaining bright place in his soul to lift his pain. “I have faith in you that you’ll always make it wherever, whenever anyone needs you, Clark.” He rubbed his cheek against his neck, still savoring his pulse and the scent of his skin. Clark’s breath hitched, stifling further sobs as short gasps, and his blunt fingernails clawed at Alex to hold him closer. 

He absorbed Alex’s warmth and comfort by degrees, his breathing gradually slowing until it matched the pace of his, both chests rising and falling in slow, graceful tandem.

Alex’s thoughts drifted in that instant back to Oliver. Back to Lionel.

He was holding a _boy_ so firmly and intimately that he felt like a _part_ of him. Clark. Alex’s chest seized with guilt and shame. Alex cleared his throat. He knew what he had to do.

“Don’t cry, Clark.” _Because it hurts too much to see you cry. It hurts me to see you hurt._ “You’re practically a man now.” He harvested those words from his father, a realization that left a bitter tang in his mouth. “Be strong for your mother now.” Clark gave one final, shuddering sigh, and Alex felt him compose himself in that instant. He disengaged himself reluctantly from his embrace, and Clark felt bereft as Alex backed away from his chair.

Alex braced himself to find more anguish and hurt in Clark’s face. He was shocked to find acceptance, and Clark’s enduring respect. “I know,” he admitted quietly. “I have to be.”

They shared a long, charged look, and Alex turned on his heel to retrieve his jacket from the barn. Behind him, Clark clenched his fist, wanting to reach for him again and pull him back. His stomach twisted in defeat.

Alex’s coach was waiting.

“I could have taken you home,” Clark muttered beside him. He nodded to the coach.

“What? On Biscuit?” Alex offered him a hollow laugh.

“Kind of.” Before Alex could reply, his driver beckoned to him and held open the door. He only turned back to watch Clark until he climbed inside.

 

*

“You were missed. It’s about time you arrived, Alexander.”

“I didn’t think I’d be gone so long, Father. I was delayed.” Oliver watched both men, each occupying opposite corners of the spacious salon in the Luthor home.

“Nevertheless, that’s bad form, son. I thought I’d taught you better than that. Learn from my son’s example, Mr. Queen. In life, you will meet people who don’t tolerate disappointment. I happen to be one of them.” Lionel lit his pipe and drew a plume of smoke into his chest. “It doesn’t help when you test my tolerance, time and time again.”

He’d humiliated him. Alex couldn’t expect any less.

Lionel had waited on the front porch the way he would an errant boy, in plain sight of the neighbors. He stood and held open the front door and stared coldly into his eyes.

“Inside. Now.” Alex’s cheeks flamed as he obeyed, and his eyes flitted to where Oliver sat at the kitchen table. Olly looked wary and slightly confused.

“There are a few things we need to discuss, Alexander. It might be prudent for Oliver to adjourn to your room for a bit.” He nodded to him. Lionel’s eyes were calculating despite his smile. “Perhaps rest until Mrs. Perry calls us to supper?”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor,” he nodded. His posture was straight and tense as he left the room, shooting Alex a backward glance that made him feel that much more chastened.

_He’d brought him into the hell of his father’s home…what had he been thinking?_

“You’re old enough to know better. That goes without saying.”

“And yet you’ve said it, Father.” His lips moved without discretion; his voice sounded disembodied to his own ears. Darker. Harder. Lionel paused in opening the brandy bottle and narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t like your tone, nor your demeanor.”

“I apologize, then.”

“You apologize, what?”

“I apologize, Father,” he recited by rote. His eyes landed briefly on his mother’s framed portrait over the mantle. Lionel’s gaze followed his and his smile grew chilly. He chuckled and nodded as he poured.

“Your mother always enjoyed your dramatics. They’ve never been to my taste, but you knew that. I’ve been meaning to speak with you about your plans for the future.”

“I’m leaving Metropolis,” he announced easily. “And Smallville.” Lionel stared at him over the rim of his glass as he sipped. Alex heard his throat working the liquor down and licked his lips.

“Enlighten me further.”

“I plan to stay with Oliver in Star City and to work for his father. Then we intend to travel a bit.”

“What lofty plans.” Lionel’s eyes weren’t amused. “How do you propose to make this move to Star City?”

“Mr. Queen offered to pay the expenses to ship my belongings.”

“So you’re Queen’s son, now? Don’t be ridiculous. I won’t allow it.”

“I didn’t ask you for permission, Father.” Lionel rocked almost imperceptibly back on his heels.

“Then you’ve taken leave of your senses.”

“I’ve finished school. I intend to work to pay my own keep. I won’t go to university until I’ve seen some of what the world has to offer, Father.”

“You shouldn’t concern yourself so much with the rest of the world, son.” Lionel calmly downed the brandy and set down the glass. He sighed heavily; the long gust of breath made his nostrils flare.

In three long, swift strides he was upon him.

Alex reared back as his father’s hands twisted in his collar, knuckles scuffing his chin. Lionel’s eyes were dilated and venomous; all semblance of calmness and self-control evaporated.

“I own you.” _WHAM!_ Alex bit his tongue as the back of his head connected with the tall oak china cabinet. “Obviously I have to remind you.” He thrust him back again, and plates rattled and crashed down from the shelves; shards of ceramic flew up and nicked his ankles through his socks.

“Father!” Alex’s voice rasped harshly. Lionel’s stronger hand pressed against his windpipe. The other gripped Alex’s jaw, squeezing so hard that he would feel the impression of his fingers in his flesh even after their encounter. He wouldn’t let Alex look away.

“I never sired you, Alexander. But you do belong to me. Not as my son. Oh, no. For all intents and purposes, you’re my heir, not Queen’s. You’ve finished school. Now it’s time for you to step up and learn the family business – ‘

“M’not…family,” Alex hissed.

“This is a small town, Alexander. They have eyes and ears. They remember you as a boy.”

“They hated me! They still hate me! And it’s your fault, Father! Do you know what they say about you? When you go to that whorehouse?”

_CRACK!_ Blood spurted from Alex’s split lip in stark contrast to his fair skin.

“Don’t judge me.”

“It’s true. Everything they say is true. You were never faithful to Mother.”

“Your mother was a liar and a whore. She passed you off as my child.”

“My mother was a lady, and you know it! She did everything she could to please you!”

“How would you know?” he spat. “How the hell would you know?”

“You don’t deserve to talk about her,” Alex insisted, “not even to say her name!”

“You won’t tell me what I deserve while you’re in my house. To keep you and your mother from shame, I gave you the Luthor name. I’ve sent you to the best schools, clothed you, fed you…I won’t waste my investment. You owe me,” Lionel growled. “And your efforts to pay that debt begin now.”

“I’ve been paying for it my entire life, Father,” he retorted.

His father’s answering punch silenced him.

Upstairs, Oliver paused in selecting one of Alex’s dusty books when he heard the shatter of porcelain. He bolted into the hall but was stopped by Mrs. Perry. Lionel’s weathered housekeeper tutted at him, restraining him with a hand against the center of his chest.

“Don’t worry yourself, dearie,” she advised. 

“I heard – “

“I said don’t worry yourself,” she snapped. “Mr. Luthor merely dropped a glass, I’m sure.”

Olly’s dark eyes called her a liar. She sniffed and fanned him back inside the room.

“Best freshen up for supper, young man,” she suggested. She waited for him to seat himself in the wing chair by the window with his book before closing the bedroom door after him.

Mrs. Perry fished in her apron pocket and found a small brass key. Deftly she locked the door before Oliver knew what was happening.

“No! Wait! What did you just do?” He heard her footsteps hurrying away as he rattled the doorknob.

Oliver’s stomach twisted into a hard knot and he broke out in a cold rash of sweat.

Alex burned with humiliation. 

_Olly can’t see me like this. Dear God!_ His physical safety meant little to him beside the threat of shame. Oliver knew Alex had suffered in his father’s house, but only to the extent that Alex had shared it with him.

“I’ve plans for you, Alexander. Important plans. Listen carefully.” Lionel released his collar and gave him a slight shove back. He lightly slapped Alex’s cheek to keep his attention. “You won’t work for Queen. You will work for me.”

“Driving a coach?” Alex spat out the taste of blood into his handkerchief.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re better suited to the mines. You’ve always been so curious about those caves, boy; get ready to see them first hand without having to sneak around my property like a thief.”

“You’re putting me to work in the caves? Digging up rocks?”

“Not just rocks. Emeralds. Aside from the coaches, they’ve kept you in those fine suits you and your friend enjoy so much. Honestly, you look like a fop. I plan to have you start from the bottom. You’ve hardly worked a day in your life, unlike your peers in Smallville. You could learn much from your friend Clark. He’s unspoiled and doesn’t have a lazy bone in his body.”

“How…d’you know so much about…Clark?” Alex coughed; his throat was hoarse.

“I have my eyes and ears. They’re an interesting family. Mrs. Kent is a regular at church.” It shocked Alex that his father even went to church. “Once Mr. Queen returns home, you’ll begin working for me. You’ll rise at dawn and quit at sundown, like every other employee I have. No special treatment. You’ve grown too soft.” He raked his eyes over Alex’s smooth hands and perfect nails. “You won’t have time for playing tennis or reading Yeats.”

“What’s to stop me from just leaving with Oliver?”

“I’ll cut you off without a red cent,” Lionel shrugged. “A diploma won’t help you pull a plow or feed a family. Look around you at any uneducated farmer in town earning an honest living.” Alex stared down at his hands balled up in his lap. “God, you’re useless.”

“Then why send me to school at all?” he asked hollowly. Tears pricked at his eyes.

“I expect you to eventually show me why. In the meantime, I’ve decided to cut your friend’s stay short. He leaves in two days. Make your excuses to his family for his early return, son.”

Alex’s mind raced.

They could get out, somehow. Tonight. Horseback? Or Oliver could contact his father to send for them?

Dread consumed him.

Toiling in the mines wasn’t as daunting as working alongside the same citizens who gossiped about him and reviled him for so long, and who despised his father. Lionel Luthor wasn’t a scrupulous or generous employer. The town’s disdain would include both him and his son.

“Damn you, Father.” Lionel nodded and a hard smile crept over his lips.

“You curse me. Amusing.”

“One day,” Alex promised, “I’ll be my own man. I’ll be better at owning a business than you. I’ll have a bigger house. I’ll have a family, and I’ll never hurt the ones I love. You don’t even know how to love! I’ll leave you, Father, and you’ll die alone.”

“Get up,” Lionel ordered in disgust. “Go upstairs until I summon you both for supper.”

Alex skirted around him and left the room without another word.

Mrs. Perry heard him as he ascended the stairs. “One second, Alexander,” she trilled. She hastily unlocked the door to let him in. Alex’s face was stony.

“Mrs. Perry?”

“Yes, dear?”

“One of these days, when I own this house, I intend to kick you out in the street and have your husband horse-whipped.” He closed the door on her gasp of outrage.

His bravado left him when he met Oliver’s eyes. Visibly he seemed to shrink as his friend examined him. Oliver’s fingers crept up to touch the corner of his mouth. Alex winced and batted his hand away.

“Alex!” he hissed.

“Don’t, Olly.”

“What did you do?” he accused. “What did you say to him to make him do this?”

“All I did is all I’ve ever done.”

“What?”

“Live.” His movements were brisk as he removed his jacket, thankful that it didn’t have any blood stains, but his shirt was a lost cause.

“Alex…”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“You owe me. You left me here while you were with that boy!”

“I had no choice, Oliver!” he flared. “What did you expect me to do? Clark needed me. You don’t understand. Clark…Clark’s important to me.” He amended that slightly as he reached for a cloth next to the basin. “His ma and pa have always looked after me when I needed them.”

“So’ve I,” Olly reminded him, throwing up his hands. “But I get it. It’s just…you were acting really weird around him.”

“Hm?” 

“Clark. You were different around Clark.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He wiped his face gingerly; the cool water felt soothing against his cuts and already swelling cheek.

“Sure you weren’t.”

“Look, let’s eat. Aren’t you starved? I know I’m hungry,” Alex pointed out.

“Alex?”

“What, Olly?” He paused in reaching for a new shirt from the wardrobe.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t do anything wro-“ Oliver closed the distance between them and grabbed Alex’s fresh shirt, tossing it onto the wing chair. He gathered him into an embrace that was rough and impatient. Alex’s breath left him in a ragged groan of need.

“I’m sorry he did that to you. And I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Olly…”

“You always said he was horrid to you. But now I know. God, I’m sorry, Alex.”

“You didn’t know.” He clung to him and felt safe, but Alex still drowned in shame that the one he loved most witnessed how poorly his father treated him.

“I should have known,” he insisted.

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.” Oliver didn’t believe him, if the way his arms tightened around his back were any indication.

“You look awful.” He drew back and gently turned his jaw one way, then the other. Alex clapped him on the shoulder, and his mask went back up.

“I’ve looked worse. Let’s eat.” He resumed getting dressed.

“Then what?” Oliver wasn’t looking forward to a night of being civil to Lionel Luthor.

“That’s a surprise.”

 

*

Life in a small town sometimes required its residents to entertain themselves in unusual ways.

Smallville enjoyed a tradition of lighting things on fire.

“This is what you usually do on Founder’s Day?”

“Uh-huh.” The boys were huddled together on the roof of the boarding house, three stories up, where they had an ideal vantage point for the fireworks. Below them, children cackled over the pop of firecrackers.

They’d waited until it was late enough, or rather, until Lionel retired to his bedroom with his scotch. Then they waited until it was dark enough for the best visibility. The remaining three hours after supper had been grueling and futile, but it was well worth it. The night air was blessedly cool after the dry afternoon. There were few stars in the sky to compete with the fiery sparks and bursts as the townsfolk sent up one flare after another. Some of Alex’s troubles drifted away as they laid back and enjoyed the display.

Oliver turned and watched Alex’s face as the bluish-white and golden lights shone on his skin with each burst. His companion caught him staring. “What?” 

Oliver’s smile was gentle. “I have to climb up onto rooftops just to get you to lie on your back?”

“Olly-mmmmmph!” The kiss was lazy and decadent, and Alex sighed in contentment.

A sudden shout below interrupted them. They sprang apart but felt foolish when they realized it wasn’t directed toward them. Oliver collapsed beside Alex this time, then tugged his sleeve.

“How long do you want to stay out tonight?”

“A little longer. Why?”

“Is there anything else to do at night beside this?” Alex mulled this over.

“My father finds things to do.”

“What kinds of things, besides his after dinner drink?” Oliver’s voice was low and held a note of disdain. Alex flushed in annoyance and gave him a hearty shove.

“Don’t talk about that.”

“Alex…okay. That’s fine.” He read contrition in Oliver’s brown eyes. “I’m sorry, Alex.”

“It’s…it’s not just the alcohol. He goes out sometimes. There’s a saloon on Main Street. He goes there sometimes.”

“So does my father, once in a while.”

“It’s not just a saloon.” Alex’s lips tightened. “They entertain gentlemen upstairs.”

“So they play cards,” Olly shrugged.

“No. They don’t.” Alex released a pent-up breath. “Olly…my father hires the favors of the women who work there.” Without turning to face him, Alex felt Olly staring at him while he gazed up at the stars. He continued speaking, entranced. “He was with them when my mother was still alive. He came home smelling of perfume. He sometimes told my mother that was where she belonged. He called my mother a whore. He’d yell at her when he came home from that parlor. He’d hurt her. I’d hear him in the dark, throwing her on the bed. Hitting my mother.”

“Alex…”

“She was a lady. My mother was a lady.” A tear welled up and spilled from the corner of his eye, leaking into his ear. “But he’d use her. Just like he used those other women. And then…once she was…gone, Olly…he’d use me.”

Alex hated himself again. All over again. Shame made hot rivers of tears roll down his cheeks as he lay silently on the rooftop, breath occasionally hitching.

“I won’t let him break me, Olly.”

“Of course not,” Oliver snapped, surprising him. “You’ve come this far. You’ve been through hell…”

“Olly, don’t –“

“Don’t tell me ‘don’t swear, Olly.’ This is a special occasion.” He turned to him and grabbed him roughly, pulling him until he lay on his side, facing Oliver squarely. There was no amusement in Oliver’s face. “He can’t break you. Nothing can break you.” His long fingers crept over his cheek, smoothing away tears and tracing the contour of his cheek. “You don’t have to come back. After we come back from Europe, you live in Star City. You come and work for my father, with me. We can live in a real city with civilized people where you don’t taste dust in your mouth as soon as you step out into the street.” A smile toyed with the corner of Alex’s mouth, but his eyes were still full of sorrow.

“Then what, Olly?”

“What else is there? You live in the city. We build our own houses on the same street.” This time Alex stifled a laugh. “We each marry the most beautiful women in town and let them hang curtains and plant vegetable gardens in the back yard. We build a white picket fence. We could own dogs. And we can wave to each other over the fence every day on the way to work. We can each have sons. We can send them to the same school. Mine will beat yours at baseball.” Alex snorted. They both dissolved into guffaws and slapped and poked at each other.

“There’s one problem with that flawless plan of yours, Oll.”

“What, pray tell, is that?”

“I’m never marrying the most beautiful woman in town. I’m not getting married at all.”

“Bullshit,” Olly scoffed. “You can play the piano. You’ve been to the best school and you’ll inherit your father’s businesses and property one day. You’re a catch.”

“What makes you think you know so much?”

“Because I’m a catch for the same reasons,” Oliver boasted dryly. Alex rolled his eyes.

“Olly…what if no woman wants me?” Oliver scowled.

“All the more for me, I guess…” This time Alex shoved him. “No. Seriously?”

“Seriously, Oll.”

“Why wouldn’t any woman want you?”

“I’m a freak. And I’m a bastard.” Oliver forced back a hot lump of guilt as he remembered their former rivalry at school and how he taunted him. “What my father did makes it hard…it makes it hard for me to want to get close to anyone. It made it hard for me to get close to you. A woman might sense what happened to me…”

“A woman might understand you better than you think. And you did get close to me.” Oliver leaned up on his elbow and toyed with the button of Alex’s collar. “But they taste different.” Alex looked astonished.

“And how did you come across that tidbit of knowledge?”

“Dinah’s chaperone was called away for a moment. A long moment.” Alex’s face cracked.

“How was it?”

“A gentleman never tells.”

“So you’re going to tell me, then.” Oliver grinned.

“Obviously. She made this funny little sound. Her lips were soft, Alex. All of her was just soft.” His eyes took on a faraway look. Alex stifled a flare of some emotion he couldn’t recognize. His voice became blunt.

“You’re soft in the head.”

“Someone dropped you on yours if you think this is entertaining.” The last of the fireworks popped and sizzled and the voices below began to wane and disperse.

“Olly.”

“What?”

“There’s something else wrong with your plan.” Alex took a deep breath. “I can’t come with you to Star City.”

The calm reverie between them evaporated.

“Tell me you didn’t just say that, Alex.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You pack your things. I pack my things. Then we hop a train out of this Podunk town. “

“If I leave, I leave without a cent, Oll. I’ll have nothing. He threatened to cut me off.”

“Alex…that doesn’t matter!”

“Of course it matters!”

“My family has plenty of money. You can’t stay here. It’s that simple. I won’t let your father keep doing this to you!”

“How do you plan to stop him?” Alex asked flatly. “And I can’t take anything from your family. I won’t be a free loader, Oll.”

“You’ve been a guest at my family’s home before!”

“A guest, not a boarder.”

“So you’d be a tenant if you worked for Father. Better yet, you’d be family.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“How am I being ridiculous, Alex? I want to help you!”

“Olly…you can’t. You can’t do anything about this. And neither can your father. If I come to live with you, he’ll want to know why. And you can’t tell him why.”

“ALEX!”

“YOU CAN’T!” Alex boomed, forgetting for a moment where they were.

“Why? Are you embarrassed about what Father might think?”

“I don’t love my father, Oliver, but I can’t shame him. No one else can know. It would ruin him.”

“Then ruin him.”

“I’m a better son than that,” he told him quietly, gravely. “If you’re my true friend and if you care about me at all, you need to know that. You need to understand why I have to stay.”

“Then maybe I’m not your true friend,” Oliver said hollowly as he rose to his feet. “And you don’t seem to want me to care about you.” Oliver folded his arms and gazed down at him as Alex sat up. “Don’t expect me to understand. I just can’t.”

“Then that’s it.” Alex stood shakily, then straightened his clothing. “Let’s head back.”

“I’ll pack when we get back. I might as well head out tomorrow morning.” Alex stiffened in his tracks, pausing by the ladder that led down to the ground.

“You don’t have to.”

“I think I do.”

“Fine,” Alex grated, jaw clenched. More tears pricked at his eyes but he stifled them successfully this time. It would get easier every time…

_He doesn’t care about me?_ The thought burned itself into his consciousness, branding him. _Don’t go._ He couldn’t say the words. Wouldn’t say them.

Their walk back to the house seemed to take too long. Alex was miserable, yet silently grateful that he had this time, at least, alone with Olly. He wanted to savor it. It was too dear.

They crept up the stairs. Alex heard no sounds from his father’s room and thanked God.

“Make sure you don’t leave anything behind that you can’t do without. Like your shaving kit,” Alex suggested as he tugged off his shoes. He had his back turned to Oliver and the air between them was thick.

“No. Wouldn’t want to leave anything behind,” Olly replied nastily. “I wouldn’t trouble you with that, Alex; it might make you think of me, or something.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Alex muttered.

“Asshole,” Oliver hissed. Alex spun on him, loaded for bear.

“You know why I have to stay! Don’t make this harder on me.”

“So it’s not hard on me. You making me leave and watching you stay here when he’s just going to hurt you again, and again. Remember how you were when you came to our school, Alex?”

“Don’t talk about that.”

“Why not? I don’t have to worry about what I say now. You’re just gonna let me leave. I was more worried about how we’d get along when you were going to Spain with me, or Paris. Instead you’re stuck here in Smallville.”

“And Metropolis. Father has business there,” Alex pointed out dully. He continued getting ready for bed.

“You’ll be busy enough, then, that you won’t miss me.”

“Olly?” Alex whispered. “No. I won’t. I’ll miss you.” He paused in the act of putting on his night shirt. His day shirt was unbuttoned and gaping slightly off his shoulders and the top button of his trousers was undone. “I’ll miss you,” he repeated.

Oliver’s breathing was hard and his jaw was set. “You sure?”

Alex answered him the only way he knew how, crossing the room in three long strides and clasping Oliver’s hand, tugging him to him. Oliver met him halfway and embraced him as hard as his arms would grip.

“Of course I’ll miss you, you bastard,” Oliver mumbled into Alex’s neck. “I’m gonna miss you so damned much!” His fingers twisted into Alex’s shirt while Alex’s palms roamed his back. “And if you think that I’m not a true friend or that I don’t care about you, then go to hell.”

“You first,” he offered. “Olly, I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

“That’s why we have hands. You’ll write to me.”

“I will. I swear.”

“Don’t swear, Alex.” Alex’s smile was unsteady.

They stood like that for a while, rocking each other, savoring each other.

They climbed into Alex’s bed and loved each other through the night, neither one admitting the true nature of what was between them nor knowing how to describe it.


	10. Clear Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Times change. People change. Childhood’s lost.

Author’s Note: I know I’ve been away from this fic. It’s only my second one for this fandom after a previous one died a death of neglect. Flames will make me cry, or at the very least bury my head in my Archie comics and not log on for a week. To anyone reading, thanks!

“All clear!”

The sounds of pick axes and lanterns scuffing over the rubble as they were laid down echoed slightly in the dark cave. Several miners adjusted their kerchiefs over their faces to keep the dust out of their throats and lungs. They began their ascent to the mouth of the cave.

A familiar baritone they despised made the roll call.

“Repeat when I call your names. Ross.”

“Here I am, sir.”

“Ford.”

“Accounted for, sir.”

The men continued to struggle out into the open. They heard the crunch of long sticks of dynamite being pressed into crevices of rock. A box of lambs’ wool was passed around the crowd. They scrabbled through it, taking handfuls of it and wadding it up as makeshift earplugs.

A second voice, similar to his father’s, rose over the other sounds of the site. “All clear!”

They suffered the younger Luthor, barely. A few of the older miners remembered his mother fondly, but most of them had little love for the seemingly spoiled boy home from his fancy school.

But at nineteen, he could hardly be called a boy.

Alex’s childhood was long gone and scarcely missed. Alex the man stared out at the world through hard, slate-gray eyes. He scanned the crowd, watching his father complete the roll.

“Are we all accounted for, Alexander?”

“Nearly.”

“Go,” Lionel snapped. His eyes ordered him to show his peers how the job was done.

Alex nodded briefly, feeling no need for a verbal reply. He felt the crew watching him, even as he willed himself to look through them as he walked past.

His rakishness was replaced by an invisible armor meant to intimidate as well as shield him from shame. Alex’s stylish suits were carefully packed away in trunks. Lionel ordered a modest handful of plain work shirts, in striped calico or serviceable flannel for his son, nothing that would engender envy in his peers. It stood at odds with the way his mother presented him as a child, previously dressing him in the best selections the catalogs had to offer, setting him apart. A few of the men sniggered at him brought so low, in his wool cap reminiscent of the one he wore at age ten. He no longer swaggered; Alex stalked.

He didn’t recognize the hard eyes staring back at him in the mirror every day.

Alex strode into the mine, descending into the left branch where the tunnels forked.

“Are we all clear?” he called.

“Clear!” He admired the exposed veins of green stones as he made his way into the hub of Lionel’s mines. He absently rubbed his palms, probing the thick calluses, wounds he’d earned with his own sweat. Alex took up an abandoned lantern, mindful of the splash of kerosene as he walked.

He made a final pass of the excavated site, satisfied that no one replied to his calls. When he emerged, he nodded to Lionel.

“All clear, sir.” His father nodded, then turned his back on him.

“Now,” he ordered with a gesture of his gloved hand.

Armageddon. It was a barrage of sound, smoke and flying rock. Alex didn’t even flinch as the men around him ducked and took cover, crying out in panic.

There was something majestic and satisfying about witnessing such destruction, knowing you had a hand in changing the face of solid rock that stood untouched for decades. One tiny stick of dynamite could eviscerate several tons of stone; score one for man’s inventions. Nature, zero.

It took several minutes for the men to get their bearings while the smoke cleared. They retreated from the site long enough to refresh themselves from the water barrels and lunch pails.

Whitney Fordman lazed beneath a tree, gulping a small tin cup of water and rubbing a wet hand over his nape to cool off. His dark blond hair was plastered to his forehead when he removed his cap, fanning himself with it.

“I won’t miss that,” Pete remarked as he bit into a chicken sandwich. “That noise haunts my sleep. Feels like I’m waking up from a trip to hell.”

“Shut your mouth!” Whitney snapped. “You afraid of a few firecrackers, Pete?”

“Maybe you can tuck him in at night,” Jason suggested rudely. 

“Twisted bastard!” Whitney spat, but he grinned, shaking his head.

The boyhood friends seldom had time or the interest for baseball anymore. A great deal of Smallville’s livelihood depended on the railroad and on several businesses Lionel Luthor operated within its limits. On the one hand, the citizens didn’t trust him. On the other, they needed him. Farmers’ sons with little inclination to attend colleges in other towns, even other states, made inquiries at the general store. The gold rush gave way to the need for gem stones instead. Dealers came from a wide radius for the emeralds rumored to have nearly perfect clarity, rivaling any delivered from overseas.

Alex watched his former classmates with something akin to envy. He was never truly one of them, he reasoned; what did he care that they ignored him? He retreated from the plank tables and took a brief stroll through the desiccated grass, sipping a cup of lemonade.

His days were a struggle; at night he retreated into himself when he was alone, occasionally picking out notes on the piano once his father left for his “exploits.” He awaited Oliver’s letters, which were few and far in-between, and frustratingly short.

_Bought a new vest. Dinah said the dark green brings out my eyes. I don’t miss Smallville’s heat. Makes you wish you were headed on a boat to Paris with me, doesn’t it?_

Of course it did. Lucky bastard…

Oliver still monopolized his dreams, fading memories of a happiness that was becoming vaguer, rarer to him. He needed his flamboyance and frankness; Oliver never let him take himself too seriously. Alex didn’t know what bothered him more: That Oliver left him alone in a dark void, bereft of his humor and warmth…or that he was growing increasingly used to it.

Alex frequently stalked his father’s study, ensuring he didn’t divert or destroy Alex’s correspondence. He took his letters by hand to the post each week, hating that he felt like an errant child sneaking candy from a jar.

Jason doused his hair with water and let it dribble down his hot neck. “Hot as a witch’s tit out here.”

“Don’t let your mother hear you swearing like that,” Whitney reminded him.

“This is no place for women. Don’t be fooled just because they let Pete in here,” he joked. He ducked as Pete tossed an empty cup at him.

“Teague,” Whitney said, “you going to the social?”

“Mother says I am,” he answered with disgust. Whitney smirked. “Might ask Lana.” His smile dropped.

“Don’t waste your time. I’m taking her.”

“Don’t tell me you beat everyone to the door.”

“I didn’t say that. But she’s going with me.”

“No. You _think_ she’s going with you.”

Pete watched the exchange, resigned. He had his own feelings about who Lana Lang should accompany to the town social coming up within the week. He nursed a fond regard of his own for the lively brunette, but Whitney and Jason distracted her with their bold brand of confidence and swagger.

Pete Ross had grown into a bright, easygoing young man. He did passably well in school, but he was hardworking and reliable, one of the best workers at the mines. When his father passed away, Lionel approached him with a job offer and paid for the coffin, his boon to the grieving family.

He was handsome in a puckish way, medium height and built like a ranch hand. His fair skin was slightly mottled with freckles and his bright, carroty hair darkened to auburn. His bone structure was strong, promising him good looks in his golden years. Pete’s eyes smiled before his mouth did.

But unfair comparisons were always made between him and Clark Kent, still his best friend. If he didn’t like him so much, Pete would gladly shove him into a lake.

He didn’t throw his hat into the ring, letting Whitney and Jason out-boast each other.

Chloe Sullivan enjoyed making it difficult for him. She clung to Lana like a burr, both a bosom friend and eternal nuisance. Pete didn’t stand a chance at having a moment alone with her. It didn’t help that any time he spent with Clark in town was plagued by the eager blonde, since she was still with infatuated him, even if her infatuation took the form of them fighting like siblings.

Alex listened from a distance to his father as he spoke to the foreman at the site. They began to count the day’s yield, estimating the price once they had the stones assessed. Alex kneaded a burning knot in his shoulder, strangely satisfied with his efforts for the afternoon.

The men spent the next few hours picking and hacking through the rubble, desecrating the cave like a temple. Nothing was sacred in their pursuit of fortune. Living off the land in Smallville no longer meant walking behind a plow.

*

“Pa?”

“Come in here, son.”

“What do you need, Pa?”

“I want to talk to you. Sit with me.” Clark’s father looked worn in his wing chair. Martha worked on her quilt in the sitting room after lighting the lantern for Jonathan in the bedroom.

Clark felt strange as he watched his father lean forward in his seat, propping his elbows against his knees and letting his weathered hands dangle. He seemed smaller than he remembered as a young boy. Unease crept through him, provoking unwelcome ideas.

“There’s something I need to show you. It’s been on my mind a long time, and I can’t rest easy until I share it with you. I don’t want you to tell anyone about this, Clark.”

“What’s the big secret, Pa?”

“Don’t sass me, Clark.” His father’s voice was grave and his lips became a thin, humorless line.

He bundled them into the wagon and they headed west, admiring the setting sun. Steam rose from the parched earth as it cooled with the approaching night. Jonathan swatted mosquitoes that never bothered Clark; his skin was flawlessly smooth and firm, but he’d never suffered so much as a cut or scratch throughout his childhood, despite sometimes careless exploits with Pete or Chloe. 

They approached a clearing. Clark eyed their surroundings with a sense of déjà vu. 

“Pa…what is this?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you about it. This place is special.”

“Why?”

“It’s where I found you.”

Clark’s stomach turned to lead, seeming to fall into his shoes.

“Pa…that’s…I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t, at first. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, more than usual, lately.” Clark knew things had changed considerably after Jonathan had his heart attack two years ago. Clark rightfully assumed more of the heavy chores and spelled him when Jonathan grew weary, sometimes handling the reins of the wagon to allow his father a chance to doze.

They didn’t need a lantern yet, and Clark’s vision was sharp enough to pick out smaller details, particularly odd burn marks in the soil. It became more scarred as they approached the shattered remains of several caves.

“Pa!” Clark cried, stopping his father just before he could trip and fall into a shallow crater gouged into the earth. Jonathan caught his breath sharply and gripped his chest. “Pa, please!”

“I’m all right,” he told him soothingly, clapping Clark’s shoulder. He looked resigned. “It’s over here.”

They reached the same heap of rubble that was now overgrown with weeds and moss. Clark was silent as his father began to clear it away, tossing aside clumps. Gradually he exposed something shiny and smooth.

Metal.

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

Clark began to feel sick with anticipation.

“You were always special, always different. You were blessed with certain gifts, Clark. No one else your ma and I have ever met can do what you can do.” Jonathan continued to dig, getting his fingers under the long, shining plate of silvery alloy and tugging it forward.

With a grunt, he freed a capsule as long and wide around as Clark’s trunk. It was worn and dented, and the front panel was loose, as though it had been pried open before.

“Pa…what is that?”

“Your cradle,” he explained quietly. “That’s the only way I can describe it, son.”

“No,” Clark whispered. “Pa…that can’t be.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, son. I love you. I’m telling you the truth when I say that I found you trapped inside this contraption one night during a storm. It was the most fearsome thing I ever experienced. I thought the stars were falling down around my ears. I took shelter here,” he said, gesturing to the cave, “until the crashing stopped. The ground wouldn’t stop shaking. There was so much fire and smoke. I couldn’t see clearly, but I could hear you. You sounded so helpless. I couldn’t turn my back on you, Clark.”

His son’s clear, jade green eyes pinned him, shining with disbelief and unchecked tears. They slipped like quicksilver down his cheeks. “Pa…I don’t understand. You mean…I…”

He was overwhelmed. Clark, normally so strong, crumpled to the ground.

“Son!” Jonathan tripped forward and caught him beneath the arms, gathering him against his chest.

Clark wept. He hated himself again, the way he had that horrible night in the house while his mother tended to Jonathan following his frightening spell in the barn. He felt weak. Something else had been taken from him, something he only realized was precious once it was gone. He was no longer innocent.

He was no longer _normal._ He felt disconnected.

His parents weren’t his blood.

“We love you. Ma and I love you,” Jonathan murmured, rocking him and combing his fingers through Clark’s soft waves of hair. He took tangible comfort in holding him, offering the affection it became harder to give him in the effort to toughen him, preparing him for impending manhood. “So much. We don’t know where you came from, son. All that matters is that you’re here now. You’re our son.” Clark was numb; he felt his father’s arms around him, still strong despite advancing age, and the press of his lips on top of his head.

“Someone couldn’t keep you. There was a purpose in you coming here. I think someone wanted to save you, Clark.”

“What if…what if they didn’t want me, Pa?” His voice was muffled and cracked in the folds of his father’s chambray shirt. His blunt fingernails dug into Jonathan’s shoulder.

“That’s ridiculous. They didn’t want to let you go. That’s how your ma and I feel. It probably killed them.”

“I don’t belong here,” Clark whimpered.

“Yes, you do.”

*

Three days of soul-searching and contemplation found Clark at the creek, wading into the cool water. Every scent, every feeling was different, sharper and needing more explanation than it did before. Did Pete feel any colder when he swam than Clark did? What did a bee sting feel like? How long would Clark have to work, or run before he felt tired? Did his father see everything they way he did, seeing the individual colonies of atoms in a grain of soil? The spectrum of colors in a drop of rain water?

Suddenly Shelby snorted, awakening from his nap.

“What is it, boy?” Then Clark listened, too, relieved to give up his frustrated musings and welcoming the distraction.

Roughly a half mile away, he saw a familiar figure, tall and lean and wearing a worn gray cap. Clark emerged from the water, heedless of his state of undress. His white breeches clung to him, a stark contrast to his rosy, burnished skin. The sun felt good on his bare back, as did the faint breeze rustling the surrounding brush.

Clark smiled, cupping his hand around his mouth. “LEX!” The young man paused, holding up his own hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

“CLARK?” he called back.

“Come on over! The water’s nice!” 

Alex ambled across the clearing, walking only slightly faster than he did before Clark spied him.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here,” Alex remarked as he approached. Clark sat down on the bank, curling his toes in the cool mud while the water lapped at his ankles. Alex joined him, seating himself on the rock instead. He set down his cap, rubbing his scalp thoughtfully. “You’re going to burn. You’ll look like a red Indian.”

“I never had a problem before. C’mon. Come swim.”

“It’s not that deep.”

“So?”

Alex “hmphed” briefly and sighed, before he stood and stretched. He unbuttoned his shirt, which was already rolled at the sleeves. Clark watched him with hooded eyes. Alex was tall, roughly the same height as Jonathan before he’d grown more stooped, and his body was lean and hard, more than Clark would have expected from someone who’d spent long years behind a desk.

Alex’s skin was still moderately fair from spending so much time at the mines. Clark silently counted the freckles sprayed over his shoulders when he turned to unfasten his work pants. The breeches he wore weren’t any finer than Clark’s, another fact that surprised him. Alex smoothly cut through the water, standing in it up to his waist. He cupped his hands and splashed some over his shoulders.

“Whoof! Still chilly,” he complained.

“Feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not used to it yet.”

“Well, here, then!” Clark launched himself to his feet and barreled into the water.

“What…wait!” Alex yelped, holding out his hands to stop him, but it was futile. Clark was grinning like an imp, green eyes holding little mercy and a surplus of amusement, entirely at Alex’s expense.

That was the last thing he saw before a huge wave of water swamped him, a shining arc of drops that all found their target. Alex bellowed in surprise and outrage.

“CLARK! Ooooooooo!”

“Are you used to it now?” Clark asked innocently.

“That’s…dirty pool!”

“Aw, c’mon, Lex, you’re nice and cool now!”

“I’ll show you nice! Prepare for battle, Mr. Kent.”

Alex could swear there was hardly any water left in the creek several minutes later. They were gasping with laughter, throwing a wet barrage back and forth. It was a rush.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.

His sides ached as he beckoned to Clark. “Truce?” Clark’s hair was slick and shone like a seal’s. He watched him warily.

“Sure, Lex.” He came forward and reached for Alex’s hand to shake it.

Alex sniggered as he splashed Clark in the face at close range, sending a jet of water up his nose. “ACK!”

“HA!”

“Sneak! Liar!”

“You just have to be sharper, Kent-“ Alex’s words were stolen from his throat as Clark grabbed him, hoisted him up in the air, and tossed him several yards away into the creek.

Alex was so startled that he choked on several mouthfuls of water. While he was under, Clark realized what he’d done, and his smile faded.

_Lex!_ He hurried to him, reaching down and gripping his fair shoulder through the rush of bubbles. Clark jerked him above the surface, and Alex looked as shocked as he did. Clark was horrified.

“I didn’t mean it!” he blurted out. Alex panted for breath. Clark looked pale.

“Easy…*kaaarrgh*…Clark! Damn it!” Alex held his nose, pinching it to expel some of the water. He wriggled his pinkie in his ear canal to free some of the water there, too. He was breathing hard. “What was that about?”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“You still don’t know your own strength, do you, Clark?”

“Lex…I…I…”

“Clark? It’s all right.”

“I could have hurt you,” Clark whispered miserably. His hand still gripped Alex’s upper arm, gently this time. He was reluctant to let go of him, something that warmed Alex.

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s all right. I’m all right. See? No harm done. I just won’t be thirsty for a while,” he joked, but Clark still looked upset. He finally noticed that he was still holding on to Alex and abruptly let go. He spun on his heel and waded out of the water, leaving Alex in his wake, confused.

“Wait.”

“I’d better go. Ma’s waiting for me.”

“It’s still early. C’mon, Clark, come back and swim for a while. You haven’t turned into a prune yet.”

“I probably won’t, anyway,” Clark muttered as he fought his way into his dry shirt, difficult with his skin still being damp. “It doesn’t matter how long I stay in it. I don’t get cold. It doesn’t dry out my skin.” Alex listened to him thoughtfully. “Nothing seems to hurt me the way it does anybody else. That-“ His voice drifted off.

“That makes you different,” Alex finished for him softly. Clark whirled on him.

“Please, don’t-“

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to be different, Clark? I can’t explain what happened to me. I don’t know why I look like this. It happened when I was young. I almost can’t remember when things were any different before.” Alex ran his hand over his smooth scalp. Clark’s expression softened, no longer full of self-disgust. “You asked me once if my hair would come back if I was a good boy, Clark. I don’t think I’ve been good enough yet.”

“I guess it doesn’t work that way, then,” Clark corrected him sourly. Alex chuckled.

“Guess not.”

“You haven’t been that bad, Lex.”

“My father would beg to differ.”

“I don’t agree with him.”

“Brave words, Clark.”

“I’m sorry,” Clark offered. “I know he’s your pa. I have to respect him. But-“

“I know. I won’t tell you how to feel about my pa, Clark. I’ll only say that he isn’t like yours. You’re very lucky.” Clark’s eyes clouded over as he turned away from him again and began to button his shirt.

“Clark? Did I say something wrong?”

The secret nagged at Clark, burning within his chest. He bit his lip.

“No. You never do, Lex.”

“Then stay,” Alex suggested. “I could use the company.”

“You sure?” Clark sounded doubtful. “I’m not Oliver,” he pointed out. “I’m not as old as you are. I can’t go everywhere that he can with you.”

“You’re hardly a child. You’re how old now?”

“Fifteen.” Alex was taken aback. Clark was taller, broader and had a deeper voice every time he heard him, it seemed. His jaw was more square, face completely devoid of its baby fat, and he had a charming cleft in his chin.

“I remember when I had to carry you.” Alex’s voice was full of disbelief. “From the caves.” He retreated and sat back on the rock, musing.

“I still don’t go into them. Ma forbids it.”

“I don’t think it’s the best place for someone your age, anyway.”

“Hogwash. Pete works there,” Clark reminded him.

“I still don’t think-“

“One of these days, Pa might need me to work. Maybe I could work for your pa.”

“I forbid it!” Alex shouted, startling him. He was up in a shot, grabbing Clark and spinning him to face him. Alex’s face was florid. Clark had never seen him in such a fit of pique. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Clark, but let me cure you of such aspirations right now. You don’t ever want to work for my father. You don’t ever want him to own you! And he would own you. Do you understand?”

Clark absorbed Alex’s anxiety from their contact, breathing taking on the same depth and pitch. Alex’s fingers bit into his shoulder. “Promise me,” he insisted again.

“I promise, Lex.”

Much like Clark had while they stood in the creek, Alex released him quickly and turned away.

“Alex?”

“Yes, Clark?”

“Come swim?” He peered over his shoulder, then faced him fully as Clark once again let his shirt drop to the ground. Alex silently joined him, picking it up and folding it neatly.

“Don’t ruin it. Your ma worked hard on it.”

They waded and chatted, floating on their backs and lying out on the banks until the sun grew low in the sky.

Their thoughts were in sync, even if they never said as much. Alex remembered the roll of Biscuit’s long back beneath him and how still Clark lay in his arms; Clark recalled the uneven beats of Alex’s heart through his coat as he cradled him.

*

Alex arrived at his home after dark. Mrs. Perry was quiet as he entered the kitchen and hung up his cap.

“Supper’s still warm,” she murmured.

“Thank you, Mrs. Perry.”

“Your father would like to speak to you, however. He’s in his study.”

Alex stiffened, then walked in long strides to join him.

“It’s about time.” His father didn’t look up from his cognac as he entered.

“What do you need of me, Father?”

“You’re coming with me tonight. Get your hat.”

“Where are we going, Father? We have an early day tomorrow.”

“You can surely stay up a while longer, Alexander.”

“May I eat first?”

“If you like. Don’t be long.”

Alex wandered back into the kitchen. Mrs. Perry already had a plate of roast beef, tomato salad and boiled potatoes ready for him. It was well-prepared, but it stuck in his throat.

Wordlessly, they climbed into the coach. The night air was cooler but still slightly humid, making Alex long for the creek.

He was puzzled when Perry pulled the coach up to the curb of saloon. He let them out, but Alex hesitated, loath to leave his seat.

“Come, Alexander.”

“Father…why have you brought me here?”

“You don’t need to know why. Don’t make Perry wait here, son. Come out.”

The denizens of the saloon were just as surprised to see him as he was to be there. Several of them looked up from drinks or cards, eyeing him with speculation. Lionel led them to the table he had reserved in the rear lounge, more sumptuous than the main parlor. The furnishings were more lavish, and a woman heavily made up, garishly dressed in a striped rose frock approached them.

“Good evening, Mr. Luthor. Drink for you and your guest?”

“This is my son, Ruby.”

“Handsome as his father,” she agreed, even though her eyes roamed over him, looking for similarities and finding none.

“Cognac,” Lionel said simply.

“Two?”

“Two,” he confirmed.

Before she went back to the bar, Alex noticed Ruby pausing at the foot of the stairs, beckoning to another young woman wearing a scandalously low-cut dress, this one in bold royal blue taffeta. It was edged in black lace, and she wore rouge on her cheeks. She turned to stare at him, and she gave Alex a brazen smile. He flushed and looked away.

“Are we here to play cards, Father?” he asked hollowly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lionel snapped. “Does it look like it?”

“Perhaps you could explain it to me.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Lionel shrugged. “I’m going to make a man out of you.”

“Father…”

“It’s past time, Alexander. I’ve had an unfavorable feeling about you for a long time that I’ve neglected my duties in teaching you the way of things between men and women.” Alex tried to swallow around a cold ball of lead in his gut. He regretted his supper.

“The way of what things, Father?”

“A woman’s place, but more importantly, her role behind closed doors.” Burning shame and hatred coursed through Alex’s veins as the implications of his father’s words set in.

“You want me to engage the services of a whore,” he said hollowly.

“No. I intend to pay for those services myself, and you will partake of them.” Lionel looked up with a smile as Ruby brought their drinks. He nodded to Alex to take his. “For courage.”

“Bottoms up! Enjoy,” Ruby told them cheerfully before she swept away.

“You’ll have a half an hour,” Lionel instructed him crisply. “Learn from her. Make the most of it and get my money’s worth.”

“I won’t accept this,” Alex said. His eyes were flat, slate gray chips.

“Yes, you will.” Lionel took a gulp of liquor and savored it. “I won’t have a homosexual under my roof, Alexander. I know how you behaved with your friend Oliver. I can just imagine what you talk about when you write to him.”

“It’s our business, Father.”

“Your business is my business, son.”

Alex felt naked and exposed. He retreated inside himself, but only heard the echoes of his father’s deep, lilting voice singing into the darkness. _Oh, Susannah, don’t you cry for me…_ Despite the warm night, he was chilled and felt his fingertips grow numb.

“If you don’t do this, you won’t have a home. You won’t have your birthright. It’s about time you’ve learned this, Alexander. High time. You’re a man, and you’ll act like one.”

“This isn’t right. You’d keep the company of prostitutes, and force me to do the same!” he whispered roughly.

“You won’t tell me what’s right!” Lionel’s control snapped for a moment. His face was florid and stiffened with anger. “How dare YOU tell ME!”

He mastered himself once Ruby returned. She turned a bright smile upon Alex. Too bright.

“You haven’t even tasted it yet, sugar.”

“He’s a bit young yet to appreciate quality cognac,” Lionel said, saluting her with his own glass before he swallowed what was left. She took it from him and beckoned to Alex.

“Go on ahead and finish it, darlin’. Don’t be shy. We’ve planned something special for you.”

Alex wanted to vomit.

He kept his hand from trembling as he reached for the glass. He closed his eyes, and then swallowed the cognac in one burning gulp. Dutifully he handed her the glass. She beamed.

“That’s a good boy,” she encouraged.

“He’s hardly a boy anymore,” Lionel bragged.


	11. Proper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the way things have always been done aren’t they way they should be.
> 
> Author’s Note: This is actually one of my favorites of the stories that I have in progress, but it isn’t getting read that often. The next update might not be that soon unless I get inspired. For anyone who has enjoyed it so far, thanks.

Eyes so dark they appeared black, lined in kohl, watched him as he gathered up his hard leather shoes.

“You’re in a hurry, sugar.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t come there to talk.

She sighed, then crossed the room to open the window, barely cracking it to let out the scent of musk and sex. The room was filled with roses, various colors stuffed in vases or hanging to dry over the doorway; their purpose was to sweeten the staleness of the room. The saloon was an old building and harbored smells that pronounced it as such.

“Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Luthor?” She resumed formality that she normally saved for this young pup’s father, knowing he didn’t enjoy pet names much.

“No,” he said curtly. “I have no more need of you tonight.” He kept his back turned, seeming to despise the sight of her. She didn’t remind him to leave her payment on the polished pine escritoire by the door. He dutifully dropped several coins into the fluted glass jar she kept for that purpose. They made a loud, clinking sound.

“Then good night, Mr. Luthor. Come and see me again, if you like.” He paused briefly at the door, hand on the knob. He turned to peer back over his shoulder but his eyes never met hers. He tugged his cap off the hook and donned it, then left without another word.

Victoria stared after him and sighed. He was so unlike his father, something that appealed to her. But he was so cold. Plying him with gin didn’t help much, but it encouraged her when he actually expressed a preference of it over Lionel’s beloved cognac.

His first encounter was awkward, as she knew it would be. He wasn’t receptive to her touch initially, jerking back as she reached for the button on his collar. Watching him flinch troubled her. What would make an imposing, tall, otherwise healthy young man like Alex fearful of simple contact?

“Helps if you take your clothes off, sugar. Unless you had something else in mind.”

That snapped him back to attention. His expression was irritated, but he mumbled “Sorry.”

“Customer’s always right,” she offered as she gently undid his top button. She undressed him slowly, reverently, and she hung his cap on the hook. She said nothing about his baldness, quietly admiring his looks despite the flaw.

He hissed in surprise as she stroked his nipple, barely grazing it with her fingertip. “Do you like that?” He closed his eyes, face strained, but she felt his body react with that light touch. She ran her hand down his chest, over his flat, firm stomach. His skin was warm and firm, perfectly smooth despite some older scars down his pale back. They solved the mystery for her, why he had a difficult time experiencing her touch.

“If it makes it any easier for you…close your eyes. Imagine someone else. Someone special to you, sugar.”

She read frustration in his blue-gray eyes.

“I can’t trust you,” he whispered. “I can’t trust anyone.”

“I’m not gonna harm one hair on your head,” she told him, hoping to break the ice. “I’m a lil’ ol’ pussycat.”

Her joke wasn’t lost on him. She encouraged him to sit on the bed while she knelt between his knees. The sheets felt cool beneath his bare thighs while she peeled off his breeches. His member betrayed him; the flesh was slightly ruddy and straining, half-erect.

“There we are,” Victoria murmured, smiling up at him. She teased the head with her fingertip, making it jump in response. “Don’t be shy.” She leaned down and breathed over it, steaming it and making Alex tingle.

He did as she suggested and closed his eyes…

 

Victoria was stirred from her reverie by Ruby’s voice in the hall. She closed the front of her dark blue peignoir and peered outside through the crack of the door.

“There you are,” Ruby accused. “You free now?”

“He just left.”

“Still shy?”

“No. Just quiet.”

“That one’s always quiet,” Ruby grumbled. “But his money’s still good here.”

“He’s growing on me.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Can’t help having a soft spot for him. Get the feeling no one else ever has.”

“You’ve always loved strays, Victoria.” Ruby came inside, tsking. “Tell me you didn’t send him out smelling like perfume.”

“He washed up. I had hot water sent up as soon as he came in.”

“Good. He paid you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Victoria reached for the jar and up-ended it into her palm. The coins slid out, along with two small, gleaming items she hadn’t noticed before he left. “Oh.”

“What’s that?”

“Looks like a present,” she murmured as she held up one of them.

It was an emerald teardrop earring mounted on a silver post.

“Bless his heart,” Ruby said in wonder.

 

*

_Mother asked about you the other day. That’s why I’m writing this. I want you to come and see me, Alex._

He read Olly’s letter by the fire, relieved to be alone in the darkened house. Lionel was at the saloon. He never showed up in the parlor when his father was there; it went without saying.

How would Oliver react if he told him how things had changed? The thought troubled him, knotting his gut as he sipped a cup of hot chocolate, not in the mood for gin.

Each trip to Victoria’s made him feel dirty. Each time he dressed himself and walked out the door, Alex promised himself it would be the last time. Each time he was wrong.

_You’ve been on my mind lately. It’s always worse during the summer. I think about that first time by the creek. Not the time you ran off with my pants…_ Alex chuckled softly. _I’ve missed you, Alex. Time changes everything, but I haven’t forgotten you._ That line gave him pause. What had time changed for Oliver?

Alex contemplated writing Oliver a return letter, but his feet took him away from the desk. He sat on the piano bench and picked out the first few notes of Beethoven, warming up the keys.

The music possessed him the longer he played. Alex knew the song by rote and his hands ran away with it. Memories assaulted him without pause.

_What’d you just do?_

His fingers suddenly pounded the keys.

_How am I being ridiculous, Alex? I want to help you!_

Alex’s head began to throb and he felt an odd tremor in his chest, a skipped heartbeat. Heat filled his cheeks, made worse by the heat of the fire.

_Of course I’ll miss you, you bastard. And if you think that I’m not a true friend or that I don’t care about you, then go to hell._

Emotions poured out of him with each barrage of crescendos and fortes, building and swelling until Alex couldn’t breathe.

He stopped. The notes reverberated around him, staining him even after his hands fell at rest. Alex gave a choked cry and slammed the lid shut with a harsh crash, nearly splintering the wood. His breathing was choppy and heavy. When he caught sight of his reflection in the silver-framed mirror on the wall, his skin was florid up to his scalp.

A rap on the window made him jump. At first glance, all he saw was something shadowy through the lace curtains that obscured his view of the street. “What on earth…?” There was that rap again. Alex knew it was late, at least eight o’clock, and he knew time had gotten away from him.

He approached the window and drew back the curtains, at first only seeing a familiar blue plaid flannel shirt. The figure backed up and grinned at him with perfect white teeth, reminiscent of the keys on his piano.

“Clark,” Alex tsked. “Philistine. Come to the door, for goodness sake.”

“Okay,” he agreed cheerfully. His dark brow arched at his friend’s condition, but he said nothing.

Alex was still shaking his head as he strolled into the kitchen to admit his friend at the back door. “What are you doing out?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged. Clark held a look of mischief that Alex found a welcome distraction.

“It’s too late for you to be here,” Alex scolded, even as he retrieved another cup from the pantry. He automatically poured Clark a drink of the warm chocolate and ushered him into a chair. “Your ma will be worried sick.” Clark sipped the cocoa and shrugged.

“Ma and Pa went to bed already. Why are you still up?” he asked pointedly.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Alex protested. “It’s not your place to question me, young man.” Clark rolled his eyes. “Mind your elders, Clark.”

“Because you’re just so much older than me,” he argued. “So, why?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted as he sank into the seat across from Clark’s.

“I heard you. That was pretty.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

“I didn’t know you still played. It’s…it’s been a long time since I’ve heard you, anyway. Since I used to come by here, I mean.”

“I don’t blame you if you haven’t stopped in for a chat, Clark. My father’s not always the most welcoming host.”

“He’s not here.”

“No. He won’t be for a while.”

“Well…” Clark stared down into his cup, swirling the remainder of his drink. Then he looked up at Alex through his lashes. “You could come out for a while, then.” Alex’s interest was piqued, even though he leveled Clark with a grave look.

“Clark…you have that look in your eye again.”

“What look?” he asked innocently.

“That one,” Alex said, shaking his finger at him, “the same one you had when you talked me into taking you into those damned caves!”

“Don’t swear, Lex!” Clark cried, eyes round.

It reminded him so much of conversations he had with Oliver when they were younger that Alex sighed. He felt a strange tingle inside him with the memory. His misgivings over the letter’s contents came back to him, but he put them aside.

“You’re right. Don’t follow my poor example, Mr. Kent. You should go home.”

“Only if you come with me,” Clark said.

“Why on earth for?”

“I have something to show you.”

“At this hour?”

“Why not? You never have any time anymore. You’re always working,” Clark complained.

“It’s what adults do. You have your chores, Clark, I know your pa won’t let you remain idle while the sun’s in the sky.”

“That’s why I want you to come with me.”

“Clark…

“Please?”

There it was, that imploring look in those soft eyes, like liquid emeralds.

“I need to get up early myself.” Alex’s resolve was slipping. Clark sighed in disappointment.

“You know you want to.”

Alex cursed inwardly. He was right.

“You’re such a brat, Clark.”

“Get your coat,” Clark said cheerfully.

“My father took the coach,” Alex grumbled.

“Don’t worry. Just get your coat.”

They left through the back door and cut through a vacant alley that Alex remembered using the day Oliver visited. That trip home seemed like it happened ages ago…

Alex decided to forgo his cap, despite the slight chill in the air. It was dark enough that no one would notice him, and it was nice for a change to not worry about how his appearance was received by his neighbors. Clark wore no coat, making Alex worry that he’d get chilled.

“Why didn’t you put on a jacket?”

“I don’t get cold,” Clark replied simply.

“Bold words. Make sure you don’t come down with pneumonia, Clark.” The thought made Alex pale.

“I’ll be fine, Alex,” Clark nagged. “C’mon. Hold on for a second.” He tugged his arm to make him stop.

Alex felt the strength and heat of Clark’s grip through the sleeve of his thick coat and he flushed. “Why?” Clark’s eyes danced.

“I didn’t ride Biscuit here.” Before Alex could even blink, Clark took hold of him, scooping him up into his arms, and he began to run.

Alex yelped, accidentally biting his tongue in surprise at the sensation of wind tearing at him as Clark picked up speed. His breath was stolen out of his throat as houses and wagons _breezed_ past them…

No. It was Clark, breezing past everything in sight and taking him along for the ride.

Instinctively he hung on to Clark for dear life, clutching his shirt as he buried his face in his neck. He felt Clark’s pulse against his temple and it comforted him only slightly.

It was still too surreal, being carried by someone as though he weighed no more than a parcel, stranger still that it was by Clark.

“This isn’t happening,” he whispered in the darkness. Clark said nothing, only rustled the dry grass with his darting steps. Alex felt the slight rise and fall of dips in the road as they hit gravel. He smelled the creek briefly, then the sweetness of oleanders and wildflowers. It was too much for Alex’s mind to process, so he closed his eyes.

His hand found Clark’s heartbeat beneath the soft flannel and palmed it.

“We’re almost there,” Clark murmured. “Don’t be afraid.” Alex’s eyes snapped open and met his. There was warmth and sincerity, and something that resembled tenderness when he stared into them. Clark felt regret at the fear that he saw in Alex’s face, but he read the questions he had there plainly. 

They said nothing else as Clark ran the last half-mile stretch across the Kent’s field.

“We’re here,” Clark whispered. “You can relax, now.”

“No, Clark, I can’t,” Alex hissed back. Clark gently lowered him to his feet and Alex paced, trying to get his bearings. He was completely out of breath, as though he had run several miles himself. Clark listened to his ragged breathing with concern.

Alex felt Clark’s large hand gently close over his shoulder and calmed slightly. He remembered how distressed Clark was at the creek and composed himself. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to get you here.” Clark’s face was a mask of contrition when he met it.

“It’s okay. You didn’t know your own strength,” Alex quipped, “again.”

“Come with me?”

“Not inside?” he said incredulously.

“Uh-uh.” Clark pointed to the barn, then led the way. Alex sighed.

“Your mother wouldn’t consider this sort of thing proper, Clark.”

“I know,” Clark admitted. They crept into the barn. Clark beckoned to Alex to wait while he found a small lantern. He lit the kerosene wick and hung it from the post by an empty stable. Biscuit and Jonathan’s other two mares were silent; they were accustomed to Clark’s nighttime visits. Alex was tempted to stroke them but decided it wasn’t prudent.

“Ma gave me this for my birthday,” Clark murmured as he headed to the ladder of the hayloft. Alex watched him curiously as Clark climbed the rungs. “C’mon up.”

“The things I do,” Alex muttered, but he obeyed. The scent of hay tickled his nose, and he sneezed into his sleeve. Clark was perched at the window, fiddling with a small paper bag and a tin pan. “What’ve you got there?”

“A treat,” he explained as he filled the pan with tiny kernels that clattered against the metal.

“I already had supper.”

“That’s okay. Watch this.” Clark covered the pan with a small ceramic plate and held it in place with his palm. He nodded for Alex to sit on one of the bales.

Alex watched as Clark’s eyes _glowed_ \- he had to be imagining it – and narrowed as he concentrated on the pan.

Alex smelled steam and saw a hint of smoke rise from the plate. Clark didn’t flinch from the heat – the _heat_ \- as the pan warmed up and the scent of popcorn filled the air. Alex jumped at the clatter of each kernel exploding and bouncing off the plate.

“My God!” he yelped.

“Hush,” Clark hissed. “You don’t want Pa to hear.”

“Your eyes,” Alex accused in low tones. “Clark…your _eyes._ ” Clark said nothing, only finished his task. He removed the plate, blowing to cool it. “That isn’t burning you.” It was less a question, more an accusation.

“Uh-uh. Here. Taste it.” Alex fingers shook as he obeyed. A few of the kernels were scorched, but it confirmed what he saw.

Heat came from Clark’s eyes.

Clark munched a few kernels, pouring some of them into the empty plate. “I figured out how to do it a few days ago.”

“How long have your eyes been like that?”

“For a while,” he shrugged.

“Clark…that isn’t normal.” Clark’s hand dropped before he could reach for more popcorn.

“I know, Lex.”

“I mean, I can’t believe what I just saw! It’s like flame came from your eyes, and you can lift the weight of ten men, and travel faster than one of my father’s coaches!”

“I raced a train once,” Clark confessed. Alex went pale.

“I stand corrected, then.”

“It was fun.” Alex was dumbfounded.

Clark was so innocent. There he sat, bright, strong, beautiful, kind…a god among men.

And the most that he could say was that “It was fun.”

It was overwhelming. “Give me a moment to think about this, Clark.” Clark’s face shuttered. He pressed his lips into a thin line and rose from his bale.

“Okay, Lex.” He climbed down the ladder. Alex heard him flirting with Biscuit.

His own heart was pounding, matching the tattoo beating in his temple.

Clark wasn’t human. 

That came to him in a rush. Clark. His childhood friend, who’d looked up to him.

It felt like a sham. Clark could do anything…use his gifts to his advantage in so many ways. Yet he didn’t.

Alex wanted to feel resentment. How long had he been able to do so much? He’d witnessed glimpses of his power at different times and couldn’t always put stock in what he saw with his own eyes.

So how could Clark admire Alex? Lionel Luthor’s bastard son, a freak among his peers? Alex mulled this as he watched the stars twinkle above him from the loft’s window. The air felt cool on his cheeks, which were still hot with frustration, and to some degree, shame.

He felt like nothing compared to Clark. Less than nothing.

Alex descended the ladder and found Clark feeding the horse a lump of apple. Clark watched him and Alex saw worry in his eyes.

“So…what do you think?”

“I still don’t know what to think,” he said hollowly. Clark looked stricken.

“No. I guess you wouldn’t, then.”

“You can do some amazing things.”

“I know. And now, you know, Lex.” Biscuit nosed Clark, looking for more treats. Clark patted her idly, then moved away. “Pa said I was to keep it a secret.”

“I can see why.”

“I need you to keep my secret.”

“Clark, why did you show me this? Why me?”

“Because I trust you,” Clark whispered. “I’ve always trusted you, Lex. Being your friend means a lot to me.” Alex softened.

He knew Clark wasn’t lying to him. He couldn’t lie, it wasn’t in his nature, still, but he’d been nothing but open with him from the day they met.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to suffer your Philistine antics a while longer,” Alex told him calmly. “Do you have any more apples? I want to give Biscuit something.”

His decision was made. Clark was relieved, realizing what he almost lost.

They munched the popcorn back up in the loft a few moments later. Clark brought up the lantern and handed Alex a small hardcover book.

“What’s this?”

“A birthday gift from Ma. I’ve read a little of it,” Clark said. Alex peered at the gold embossed cover.

“Tennyson,” he said thoughtfully. Alex handled the book as though it were fragile, carefully leafing through the crisp pages. “It’s a beautiful copy. It cost your mother a pretty penny. Take good care of it, Clark.”

“Have you read it?”

“It’s my favorite,” Alex replied. “I found it enthralling.”

“I don’t always understand poetry,” Clark confessed. “I can read the words well enough, but that’s all it seems like. Words.”

“Blasphemy. You misguided soul.” Clark made a face. “Allow me to enlighten you.” Clark looked amused as Alex flipped back to the table of contents, then found what he was looking for. Alex quirked a brow at him as Clark held the lantern closer, letting its dim golden light flicker over his face.

He sat mesmerized by his rapt expression and resonant voice as he began to read.

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,  
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."  
In the afternoon they came unto a land  
In which it seemed always afternoon.  
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,  
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.  
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;  
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream  
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

 

Clark lost his amused expression as he continued to listen to the words, hearing the subtle emphasis Alex put on the appropriate words, suddenly giving the verse meaning it didn’t have before. Alex almost forgot he had an audience. The poem was one of his favorites, and it was a pleasure to read, the book’s weight sacred in his hands.

It had been so long. Alex felt the pang of remembered, dashed dreams and what he’d given up on his return to Smallville. The poem evoked Oliver’s laugh and his touch in the dark, the smug whisper in his ear and his warmth against his back. Alex missed the classroom and the lectures, experiments and dissertations. He cared nothing for town life, or farm life. He longed to live somewhere big enough that no one knew his name, where he could reinvent himself.

The poem represented freedom Alex craved. 

He fooled himself into thinking Clark only heard words.

Alex fell silent after the last stanza, musing. He closed the book, running his thumb along the stiff spine. He looked up and found Clark watching him intently, leaning in toward him as he listened.

_His eyes…_ They seemed to stare into him, right through him. Alex felt naked beneath his gaze, and Clark’s smile felt like a caress.

“I liked that,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I would, but I do.”

“There’s hope for you yet.”

“Lex…read another one?”

“You flatter me, but it’s late. No excuses, Clark. Time for bed.”

“Please?”

“No, Clark.” Alex suppressed a smile when Clark pouted. “I need to get home.”

“Can’t you stay for a little while longer?”

“I have an early day. I can’t dawdle anymore, Clark.”

“Alex…um. Thanks. You know, thanks for coming here with me.”

“Friends visit friends. Even if this was a little unorthodox, Clark.”

“I miss you,” Clark blurted out.

“You see me every day!” he said incredulously.

“No. It’s not the same! I never…we never talk. Not the way we used to.”

“I don’t have much time for ball anymore.”

“Alex, have you ever gone to a social before?” Clark asked suddenly.

“Don’t change the subject,” Alex scolded softly. “But yes. I have. Why?”

“I was just wondering…”

“Because…” Alex cajoled, motioning with a wave of his hand for Clark to spit it out.

“I wanted to ask Lana if she would let me escort her.”

“Sounds pretty bold,” Alex mused, suppressing a smile. Clark was blushing, something he noticed despite the dim light. Clark ducked his head shyly, then peered up at Alex through his dark, thick lashes, a gesture that reminded him so much of how he looked as a child.

“I like her.”

“She’s quite fetching.”

“But everyone wants to take her.”

“So? That doesn’t mean you can’t ask her. Strike while the iron’s hot, Clark.”

“I don’t know how to dance,” Clark blurted.

“Ah.” Alex picked at a few leftover fragments of popcorn. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Clark stopped attending school the following spring to help his father with the farm due to his increasingly fragile health. Spending several hours a day in a classroom was a luxury he couldn’t justify, despite that he was a brilliant student in every subject. Once in a while, Clark still sketched to relax. He seldom showed anyone his drawings, but Martha incorporated several of them into her needlework.

“I don’t want to look like an idiot.”

“You won’t. Be more confident. Why wouldn’t she want to go with you? You’re bright, pleasant, and a big, strapping young man with your mother’s smile.”

“I just don’t know. Lex…can I ask you something?”

“You’re full of questions tonight.” Alex quietly dismissed the likelihood of going home early. He decided to indulge his friend, anyway, like a doting surrogate brother.

“What does it feel like to kiss a girl?”

Alex was struck speechless. He opened his mouth, then clapped it shut.

Clark took his silence to mean that he needed him to elaborate on what he asked. “I mean, I know maybe it isn’t proper to kiss her. That would mean she’s spoken for, and I would have to ask her permission first, wouldn’t I? Is that too bold? D’you think she’d get angry at me? I don’t want to take any liberties.” He sat back and stared into the lantern’s flickering light, musing. “I’ve been wondering what it feels like. To kiss someone.”

“It’s exciting,” Alex murmured. “It makes your heart pound in your chest and your palms sweat and your stomach twist. You wonder if you’re going to get it right, but you almost don’t care even if you don’t. In that moment, you just want it so badly, and you know everything will be different after it happens. That you’ll never feel the same.”

Clark was mesmerized by his description and the low thrum of his voice. “How do you do it?”

“Touch her. Take her hand, or just pull her close. Stroke her cheek to make her lean in toward you. Then wait for her to close her eyes.”

“That won’t work…will it?” Clark looked doubtful. Alex chuckled, then rose. 

He stood over Clark and reached down. He ran the back of his index finger down his firm, smooth cheek.

Clark shivered, leaning into his touch. His eyes drifted shut with pleasure at the warmth of Alex’s hand.

Alex was so tempted, in that moment.

“There’s your answer.” He backed up. Clark’s face felt hot, but his shy smile returned. “Take me home now?”


	12. Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex gets his wish and reunites with Oliver. But things have a way of falling apart.
> 
> Author’s Note: This story often gets neglected, I will admit that right now.

“What do you think you’re doing, son?”

“I don’t ‘think’ I’m doing anything, Father.” Alex looked up toward the voice’s source. Lionel leaned against Alex’s room’s doorframe with a mixture of disdain and amusement. His eyes raked over his son and the carpet bag that sat open wide on his bed. Alex was neatly, methodically folding his clothing and layering it inside. He tucked a couple of his favorite books inside, protectively wrapping them up in one of his clean nightshirts.

“I don’t think I understood you.”

“I apologize.”

“Then explain yourself. What are you doing, Alexander?”

“I’m leaving. I’m going to Star City, in fact.”

Lionel’s smile never faltered. “You are?”

“I have an early train.”

“Where did you get the money for this little jaunt?”

“From my meager savings of hard-earned cash,” he supplied. “Oliver offered to pay my way. It was unthinkable. I’m sure you agree, Father.”

“What’s unthinkable is your assumption that this kind of defiance is acceptable. You have responsibilities at the mines.”

“And you have two perfectly capable foremen who can handle the production while I’m gone for three days, Father.” Alex never paused in his packing and grooming. He donned his black coat with its dark green satin lining, a richer garment than his usual brown wool. Alex was in the mood for a bit of flash and style. His trip to Oliver’s stomping grounds seemed to demand it. “And it’s hardly defiance if you never told me I couldn’t go to visit.”

“You know how I feel about you staying under Queen’s roof.” Oliver’s father was one of Lionel’s fiercest business rivals of late, once word of Luthor’s mines took off, drawing more people to Smallville looking for work. It was a perfect alternative for those with limited education or skills who wouldn’t be eligible to work at one of Oliver’s father’s plants.

“It isn’t about how you feel, Father.” Alex pinned his father with a stony gaze. Lionel straightened up from his perch, standing completely erect. But he noticed for the first time that Alex had outgrown him, standing at least two inches taller than he did, now. Lionel’s reflection told him that he himself hadn’t grown more stooped, thanks in part to his life of work behind a desk instead of out in the field.

“So you’re going to carry on with this journey of yours, then?”

“Of course. Try not to miss me too much.” 

Lionel only smiled as his son brushed past him as he exited the room.

*

The ride by train was uneventful. Alex could have happily done without the dust that settled on his clothes from the open windows, but he wasn’t any the worse for wear when the engine pulled into the station.

His heart grew progressively lighter as the train slowed to a halt. The bells and whistles signaling its arrival sounded sweeter than Beethoven to his ears as he disembarked. He waved down a porter and tipped him a nickel when he retrieved his carpet bag. Alex’s mouth tasted like dust and he was parched, longing for a glass of lemonade and a cool parlor to rest his feet. But the cure for all of his ills was-

“Alex! ALEX!”

_Oliver._

They each waded through the milling crowd, smiles lighting up their faces as they met halfway. Their embrace was rough, squeezing the breath from Alex’s chest, but that was fine with him; his heart was bursting.

“Olly,” he whispered hoarsely.

“You came,” he replied in kind, just as affected.

“Nothing could keep me away.” He drew back reluctantly and really stared at his friend, taking in the minute changes. Oliver had finished the last of his late growth spurt a year prior and he was as tall as Alex, but he had a broader, deeper chest. His skin was a deep tan from weeks spent on a ship; this time he’d gone to Italy.

Oliver looked him up and down, holding him at arms’ length. “Dowdy old thing you have on,” he scoffed, even though his eyes were dancing.

“Ass,” Alex retorted. “You know you’re jealous.”

“Who isn’t jealous of a Luthor?” He punched him playfully and reached for Alex’s carpet bag.

“I can get it.”

“Don’t worry about it. C’mon.” Oliver elbowed his way through the crowd with Alex close on his heels. The station was bustling with people, many of whom ignored Alex’s bald looks for a change. He almost blended in, and it felt good.

They climbed into Oliver’s father’s lush coach, thankful that his driver had kept it in the shade. They left the windows open as they rode into Star City, and Alex noticed the difference immediately in the absence of dust blowing inside. He missed the bustle of the city more during sweltering summers like these.

More than anything, he missed Olly.

Alex made no bones about sitting beside him in the coach instead of the bench across from him. Oliver’s hand crept into his; they didn’t risk more intimate contact.

Oliver’s smile didn’t reach his eyes after several moments of silence. “I’m sorry I’ve hardly written.”

“You had your reasons.” Alex’s voice held the expectation that his lover would explain them in detail before the day was over. He shifted his grip on him, lacing his fingers through Oliver’s and squeezing them. Oliver gave him a hint of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes before staring back out the window.

They reached Oliver’s home shortly, stopping only to drop off Alex’s luggage and climb back into the coach.

“Selena Kyle’s place,” Oliver told his driver curtly. Alex lifted his brows in surprise.

“What kind of place is that?”

“Saloon. Gentleman’s lounge. Doesn’t matter if you want gin or lemonade. It’s a nice place.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Alex replied, still not convinced.

He changed his mind when he got there. The saloon was three times larger than Ruby’s once he was inside. The back parlor was sumptuously decorated, and a pianist played rollicking tunes in the corner of the bar. Patrons tossed coins into a large glass goblet sitting atop the piano, and it was well worth it. Alex admitted to himself that he played very well; however, his own long, slender fingers itched to stroke the keys and feel their pounding thrum and cadence tingle through him.

There were no female patrons, which didn’t surprise Alex. A plain looking woman behind the counter collected trays of dirty glasses and dishes and hauled them back to the kitchen, sweat beading on her ruddy brow. Just when he assumed that Ruby’s place held the advantage of this saloon, however, Alex was proven wrong.

A tall, stately woman garbed in a purple taffeta dress edged in black lace sauntered out from the gaming den in back of the parlor. Alex held his breath. She was breathtaking.

Her walk was bold and strong, rolling her hips as though she’d learned how while she was still cutting teeth. Her raven hair was bound back from her face and pinned high at the crown of her head, cascading down in long curls. The elegant style revealed the long line of her neck, adorned with a mother of pearl, cameo choker. Her face was made up expertly, heedless of convention, making her resemble an exotic doll.

Her ripe, red lips curled as she spied Alex and Oliver. Out came her lace-edged fan, which she snapped open as she approached.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Queen.”

“Miss Kyle,” Oliver drawled, standing and bowing over her extended hand. Her gloved fingers curled appreciatively around his as he kissed her knuckles; his brown eyes never left her cool blue ones.

“I see you’ve been keeping your best secrets from me again.”

“Oh?” Oliver pulled out the damask-upholstered chair out from the table and waited for her to seat herself before gently pushing it into place.

“You haven’t introduced me to your dashing friend here,” she pouted, fanning herself prettily. Alex arched his brow, suppressing a smile.

She could tell this new young buck had a story to tell, even if he’d never share it with the likes of her. But she loved mysterious men, on those rare occasions when she met one in her salon. Selena Kyle acknowledged and relied on two facts regarding her clientele. One: Their needs were transparent and easily fulfilled. Two: It paid well to be a good listener.

What kind of man had such cold, hard eyes and a devilish smile? She shivered, despite how warm it was inside.

“Miss Selena Kyle, may I introduce Mr. Alexander Luthor, visiting us from the town of Smallville.” Alex rose and gave her a stately bow, then duplicated Oliver’s gesture, brushing his lips over her hand. Unlike his eyes, his grip was warm.

“Charmed,” he mused in a rich, deep voice. She clapped her fan shut and laid it in her lap.

“Have you been served yet?” She noticed the lack of glasses on their table and automatically gestured to the barkeep. He nodded and headed into the kitchen. Moments later, the woman from behind the counter came out, smoothing her hands on her apron. She held a pencil and small slate in her meaty grip.

“What might I get for you gentlemen? And for the lady?”

“Gin,” Oliver replied.

“Cognac,” Alex said. Oliver lifted his brow.

“Your father drinks that.”

“I’ve acquired a taste for it.” Their server ignored this exchange and hurried away, nodding to them as she left. When she returned, she set down their drinks, including a tall glass of lemonade for her mistress.

“You have expensive tastes, Mr. Luthor.”

“Alex.”

“Has a nice ring to it. Just out of curiosity, though, has anyone ever called you Lex?” He looked amused.

“Only one other person, no matter how long I’ve tried to dissuade him from it, but he’s a dear friend.”

“If you have to shorten as strong a name as Alexander, you should keep it as no-nonsense as possible, Mr. Luthor.” She sipped her drink, licking her lips like a cat. “It makes you memorable to the people who matter, and harder to track down for the ones you want to avoid.”

“Duly noted,” he said. His mouth almost softened. He swirled his cognac in the glass, held it up to the light to examine its color and took a tentative swallow.

“What’s the verdict?”

“Mellow. Has a nice finish.” She beamed.

“One of my contacts brought it back from Paris. He owed me a favor.” Oliver’s eyebrows nearly shot up into his hairline.

“A favor?” His voice was full of distaste for what such a thing would involve.

“Why Mr. Queen, do stop staring at me so, it’s ungentlemanly.” But her eyes danced from over the rim of her glass.

*

They lounged in Selena’s company for another half an hour before she excused herself to her duties as the salon’s proprietor. As they left, Alex peered up at the second story of the stately building. Sure enough, he saw the silhouettes of ladies through sheer lace curtains that he never saw in the main parlor. So Ruby’s place truly _didn’t_ offer services that Selena’s couldn’t match, then. Alex filed that information away and turned his attention back toward Oliver.

Olly groaned as he sat back in the carriage, kneading a knot in his neck. He loosened his cravat and mopped sweat from his cheeks with a handkerchief. “Lord, I’m worn out.”

“How long have you been out and about?”

“Not long. But I couldn’t sleep last night,” he admitted as Alex climbed into the coach. He sat beside him once more, and Alex was quick to resume their previous repose, holding his hand. Oliver tensed with the contact, then relaxed; Alex, however, picked up on the subtle change in him, and it curdled in his stomach like sour milk.

What was wrong? Why was Olly acting this way? Alex wasn’t just imagining it.

As though he read his thoughts, Oliver stroked Alex’s knuckles with his thumb. “I’ve been so busy lately, Alex…I know that’s no excuse for being such a shitty friend.”

“Don’t swear, Olly.”

“We’re not children, anymore, Alex, I can say whatever I damn well please. And so can you.” The coach had already rumbled down six city blocks, and the buildings grew farther apart as businesses gave way to residences. The houses in Star City made the finest homes in Smallville look derelict; Alex felt no hometown pride for this to bother him. Memories of the dreams he shared with Oliver before they parted haunted him, even mocked him. It seemed so long ago, and Alex felt disjointed and slightly bitter. _So many months gone, that we won’t get back._

But now that he was finally by Oliver’s side again, where did they go from there?

The local scenery awoke a seedling of yearning within Alex, feeding it a little more as they drove up the winding courtyard of Queen Manor. An evening breeze stirred the trees, promising an early dusk as the sun hid beneath the rooftops.

Alex was grown and seasoned, even jaded by his day to day existence as Lionel’s right hand; he didn’t lie to himself that wasn’t time spent under his father’s thumb. But he’d watched and waited, absorbing everything that Lionel showed him, plainly or indirectly. He learned to read his father’s instincts, even though that gift came at a cost no less precious than his soul.

Alex found to his horror that he was so much like the father who wasn’t even his blood. It festered inside him, brimming with roiling, bitter poison, and the boy he once was drowned pitifully in it, sobbing out on his dying breath, _Why._

He kept his ear to the ground, and Alex hired additional ones when necessary. Alex scrimped and saved, content with his father’s stingy budget for his personal attire while his savings from his own labors grew into an enviable nest egg.

A sliver of light so rare, bright and precious pierced the endless darkness, and Alex wanted to hold it fast, cling to it and protect it, even if the effort took his life. He would be free of Lionel. He would make his own way and be his own man, his own success. He wore his thoughts on his face when Oliver turned to him. He squeezed his hand in concern.

“Alex? What’s wrong?”

“I’m all right.”

“That doesn’t mean nothing’s wrong. You’re a tough bastard, Alex. You’d be ‘all right’ with a house burning down around you or if the sky was falling.” Oliver twisted around in their seat and reached for Alex, catching his chin in a firm grip. “You’re mine for the next three days. If nothing else, we have that, Alex.” The coachman was pulling around to the back of the house, near the barn, which gave the boys a few more moments of privacy before they disembarked. Oliver leaned in and kissed Alex tenderly, making him sigh in contentment. His lips still tasted like Oliver, felt like recovering lost treasure.

They headed into the house through the back door. Alex nodded to the gazebo on the back lawn, which spanned an entire acre. “That looks new.” The view was breathtaking, with the sun setting through the trees. Oliver urged him inside, hand briefly squeezing his shoulder. Oliver’s coachman paid them little heed as he took Alex’s luggage inside.

They entered the kitchen, and Alex heard familiar light footsteps. Oliver’s mother peered around the side of the doorframe, and her eyes grew round, lighting up.

“Oliver? You’re back so late, where were the two of you?” Her next thought was interrupted as Alex stepped out from behind his best friend. “Alexander?!” she cried, covering her mouth with her hands. “You scamp! Come over here, you naughty boy! Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Alex’s smile was genuine as he obliged her, letting her pull him down into her embrace. It felt like hugging Mrs. Kent, and Oliver’s mother filled the gap left in his life when Alex left Smallville for the academy, stepping in as his adoptive mother. Alex felt the prick of tears behind his eyes but closed his eyes against them, instead drinking in the scent of her light cologne and soap and the brush of her soft gray hair against his cheek.

“Goodness, you look different,” she mused, smoothing the lapel of his coat. “You seem tired, though. Did you have a safe trip?”

“Of course he did, Mother,” Oliver answered for him.

“Then perhaps you’re working too hard. None of that while you’re staying with us,” she admonished. She ducked into the corridor and called out, “Kitty! Tea for three!” She turned back to them and said, “Go. Wash up and come back down when I call for you. Olly, get Alex settled in. I have the guest room already aired and ready.” Alex felt a pang of disappointment. That room was adjacent to the Queens’ suite with appallingly thin walls. His body craved time with Oliver, with no restraints or enforced silence.

They climbed the stairs slowly, hesitating, as though trying to stave off their inevitable separation for the night. Their footsteps were heavy with fatigue, something Alex found ironic, since he spent most of his day sitting either in a coach, train or salon. Yet he was exhausted, as though the rigors of the past two years had finally caught up to him and taken their toll in Oliver’s presence. The momentum of waiting for him, yearning for his warmth and light, finally swamped him and weighed him down, like sinking into a viscous, muddy pool.

The door clicked shut behind him, interrupting Alex’s dark thoughts. “Take off that damned coat. It’s dowdy,” Oliver muttered, reaching for him. His grip burned Alex with its insistence, tugging at the sleeve to goad him into undoing the buttons more quickly.

“The hell you say; I paid good money for this… _mmmmph…_ ” Oliver spun him around and dragged him against his hard body, and his mouth was unmerciful, unquenched by the kiss in the coach. His hand cupped Alex’s smooth nape, molding to its shape while his tongue plundered Alexander’s mouth. His knees buckled and he didn’t protest as Oliver’s hands impatiently divested him of the coat, roaming over him and setting him on fire. Both of them fought for dominance of the kiss; Alex snatched at Oliver’s clothing, ridding him of the bothersome silk tie and flinging it across the room, jerking open the buttons of his fine vest and palming the contour of his pec through his white shirt. 

“I can feel your heart pounding,” Alex whispered beneath Oliver’s lips.

“You did that to me, damn you,” Oliver husked back. “Damn it, Alex. I want you. I can’t stop wanting you.”

“Neither can I, you bastard. And it’s been killing me…” That needy, lonely voice inside of Alex sobbed out _I love you_ and made him whimper when Oliver’s hands gripped his hips and ground him against his hard flesh, just beginning to jut through his heavy wool pants.

“They’ll hear,” Alex chided him, but he cupped Oliver’s jaw, ran fingers deftly through his thick, wheat blond hair, drinking kisses from his mouth like he couldn’t get enough.

“Just a few minutes,” Oliver promised. His voice was desperate, and when Alex opened his eyes, Oliver was panting for breath, and his dark eyes were full of lust and heat. He couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. “Just a few minutes,” he pleaded, and Alex was lost. “I need to touch you, Alex…” He urged him back into a high-backed chair beside the mantle and knelt between his knees. His hands resumed their task of tugging off his clothes, separating the folds of his shirt and revealing his lean, hard chest. “My God, Alex, you’re brown as an Indian.”

“I’ve been outside,” he admitted, then groaned as Oliver leaned in and captured his nipple in between his teeth and suckled it lazily. Alex’s hips bucked in his seat and his fingers returned to that wonderful, soft hair that he’d always envied. Alex tugged at Oliver’s shirt, easing the hem of it out from his trousers, clutching handfuls of the fabric as Oliver’s hot mouth devoured every inch of him. He peered up at him and caressed Alex’s cheek. “Olly, I’ve missed you,” he confessed hoarsely.

“Alex, I want you bare.”

“What if-“

“Don’t worry. We’re washing up,” Oliver reasoned, using his mother’s suggestion as his argument. Alex chuckled, the first time he’d laughed since that morning, when he took leave of his father. Only Oliver had ever been able to make him laugh.

And Clark.

The errant image of his younger friend’s shy smile was an unwelcome intrusion, making Alex grip the back of Oliver’s neck more tightly. He closed his eyes and willed the vision away, giving himself up to his ministrations and tenderness. The rest of their clothing fell away, and they took in minute differences in each other’s bodies as Oliver straddled Alex’s lap, allowing their members to graze and slide against each other as they kissed. Their caresses were lazy, exploring familiar territory, a thin layer of hair here, a scar there, mapping out contours and hills of muscle and heated skin. Alex counted the bumps of Oliver’s spinal cord with his fingers, traveling down to his glutes and groping their smooth hardness.

The urge to explore him more intimately nagged at him, but Alex was afraid of taking too many liberties with his lover. They’d built up their bond of trust over several years, but Alex remembered how halting and fragile it was in the beginning, hating his own vulnerability and the damage he’d suffered at Lionel’s hands, letting it stain what lay between him and Oliver. His fingers itched to stroke the tiny opening nestled in Oliver’s crease…

He didn’t realize he’d done it, stroked the silky little hollow until he heard Oliver gasp. “Alex…what the hell…?” His dark eyes snapped open and his haze melted away. “What’re you doing down there?” Alex’s eyes dilated and he snatched his hand away; his other hand squeezed Oliver’s hip in apology. He tried to look away, but Oliver caught his chin again, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Alex, what was that? Tell me.”

“I didn’t mean… I got carried away. It was wrong, I know, but Oliver…please don’t hate me. Don’t hate me, Olly, I couldn’t stand it if you didn’t want me to touch you again!” He tried to lift Oliver off his lap, feeling shame flood him, in conflict with the pressure and heat built up in his cock from Oliver’s delicious presence on his lap. Oliver wasn’t having it. He insinuated himself back onto his lap and cupped his face in both hands this time, leaning his forehead against his.

“Alex,” he murmured, his breath steaming Alex’s lips, “it wasn’t wrong. I just didn’t expect it. I wasn’t used to it.”

“I’m disgusting,” Alex whispered. “I never should have done that, Oliver. I had no right…I can’t…”

“You can’t what?” Alex swallowed. Several long, painful seconds passed between them, and Alex couldn’t stop the tears that burned a slick path down his cheeks.

“I can’t violate you.”

“Idiot,” Oliver murmured. “Look at me. Look at me, Alex; don’t be ashamed. Never be ashamed, Alex, look into my eyes…never be ashamed with me. You’re right; you can’t violate me. That happens when one person is helpless, or doesn’t want it. I know how you feel about that, Alex. Do you hear me?” He forced him to look at him, even though Oliver’s heart broke at the sight of the anguish written on Alex’s features and in his red-rimmed, slate blue eyes. “I’m not helpless. You’re not disgusting, Alexander.” His use of Alex’s full name stung at first, reminding him of his father’s way of addressing him, but he knew Oliver wanted his attention, and he’d make sure he kept it. Olly feathered kisses over the top of Alex’s head, warming his flesh and making him shiver beneath his misting breath. “You just surprised me. I just wasn’t used to how it felt.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve been hurt there…”

“I know, Alex. God, I know. I didn’t know how much I scared you that day, and I felt like hell after you told me.” And Alex’s pain was mirrored in Oliver’s face. His hands tightened themselves around Oliver’s waist.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“I know. It changed things, Alex. It changed so much. I could never figure out what made you the way that you were before, why you were so hard-assed and why you acted like you were above it all.”

“That wasn’t what I meant to be.”

“No. You were above it all, because you had to be.” Oliver kissed his forehead. “I was always afraid after that, that I’d hurt you, Alex.”

“You never did,” he told him, leaning up to kiss him gently, just a light brush of his lips, as though he was afraid he would drive Oliver away with more. “Ever.” He ventured another kiss. “Until you left, but that was all my fault.” Oliver shook his head.

“I never should have left you.”

“You know why you had to.” But Oliver allowed him the lie. It haunted him, making him bleed every night that he didn’t have to, and damn propriety and Alex’s father’s hold on him. Oliver trailed kisses over the slope of Alex’s temple and cheek, then made him gasp as he nipped his earlobe. The lapping of his tongue sent shivers through his body and further hardened and distended his engorged member. Oliver was grinding against him slowly, rhythmically, craving the friction.

“I’ll never know why, Alex.” Alex moaned as Oliver tipped his face slightly to give himself better access, cradling Alex’s cheek in his palm. His tongue laved the shell of his ear and he groaned his pleasure at Alex’s flavors.

“Oh, God,” Alex choked, “Olly. Please…oh, God, Olly…”

“Touch me, Alex. It’s all right.” Alex closed his eyes, shaking his head.

“No. You don’t have to say that…we don’t have to do that, Oliver, you don’t have to just to…”

“I want you to touch me, Luthor,” he whispered into the side of his neck. His tongue was doing wicked things to his pulse… and Alex couldn’t hold back any longer. His fingernails grazed the long column of Oliver’s thigh before stroking his way up toward Oliver’s pelvis. His fingertips feathered over the silky skin of his hip, drawing patterns over it. Oliver quivered, then breathed out a chuckle.

“That tickles!”

“I don’t know if this might, Olly,” Alex murmured. “Let me know if you want me to stop?” He kissed him, and Oliver sighed into it, opening for him. Their tongues lolled around each other, stroking each other with velvety heat. Alex’s hand palmed Oliver’s glute, kneading it to relax him. Then he sought out the divide, finding the top of the crease with his fingertips. Oliver was sensitive there, but he merely sat still while Alex tentatively explored him.

They stared into each other’s eyes as Alex’s fingertip gently stroked Oliver’s opening again. He massaged it, barely applying any pressure, and Oliver gave a sharp little intake of breath. “Oh,” he breathed. “That’s…not bad.”

“But is it _good_ , Olly? If not-“

“I didn’t say that.” He fidgeted on his lap briefly. “Do it again.” Alex probed him again, and this time Oliver made a sound of pleasure in his throat. Alex was carefully circling the ring of muscle, teasing it. Sensitive nerves Oliver didn’t know he had pulsed and tingled as the very tip pressed inside. His hips jerked against Alex in response.

Alex bowed his face to taste Oliver’s shoulder. “You feel so soft.” Oliver thrust down on Alex’s finger as he wiggled and pushed it farther inside, up to his first knuckle.

“Chafes a little,” Olly admitted.

“Olly…do you have any cream?” Oliver made a face.

“Why?”

“It…it just makes it better,” Alex suggested.

He wouldn’t mention that Victoria swore by it. He remembered her lavender scented hand cream that she kept by her bedside, as well as a bath oil that she often poured into the tub when she gave Alex the full treatment that he paid for. Both served their purpose for the other tricks she showed him…

Oliver was reluctant to leave his lap, but he rose and rummaged through his drawers. “I know I have something…wait.” He pulled out a small jar. “What about this?” He handed it to him, and Alex grunted as he read the label.

“Cooling liniment with eucalyptus, for aches and pains. Do you need this?”

“I wrenched my shoulder some time back,” he explained. Alex took his hand and squeezed it sympathetically as Oliver loomed above him. He leaned over and kissed his bare stomach. “It should work,” he said hopefully.

Before they could test that theory, a solicitous voice in the corridor broke the spell between them. “OLIVER! Tea time!”

“Shit,” he hissed, closing his eyes in frustration. Alex reached up and patted his bottom.

“Tea time.” Oliver sighed and rummaged for some fresh clothes.

 

*

The tea was interminable, even though Alex enjoyed the attention from Oliver’s mother, who truly was ecstatic to see him. She peppered him with questions about his work.

“Emerald mining? That’s meant to be dangerous work, Alex,” she nagged, shaking the sugar tongs at him.

“Not when you take the necessary precautions. Accidents won’t happen when you’ve done the proper planning,” he assured her, borrowing his father’s words. “I’m one of the foremen. I don’t take unnecessary risks when I have mens’ lives at stake.”

“I worry about your safety. I wish you’d reconsider coming to work for Olly’s father, dear.”

“It’s a kind and generous offer, and I appreciate it.” He wouldn’t go any further with the sentiment or indulge further cajoling from her. Oliver was silent beside him, thankful when his mother dropped the subject and began talking about their plans to rebuild their barn.

*

 

They retired to their respective rooms that night.

“I’ll come for you,” Oliver whispered by the door. Alex nodded, then closed the door gently. He extinguished his lantern, uninterested in trying to read himself to sleep.

Two hours went by fitfully. Alex’s nightclothes felt confining and tangled around him; he longed to sleep nude, which he’d slowly become accustomed to on nights when Lionel didn’t return home. The furniture of the unfamiliar room created odd silhouettes along the walls as the moonlight leaked inside, and the night sounds sounded more stark due to his restlessness.

He closed his eyes and lingered in that state between wakefulness and sleep, when the colors behind his eyes slowly began to fade to black.

The door creaked open, and he kept them closed, silently thrilled. 

“Are you tired?” Olly whispered, kissing his brow. Slate blue eyes met his in the dark.

“No.”

“Come with me. Get your shoes. Bring one of those blankets.”

Alex wadded up one of the blankets, deciding not to bring his mother’s good quilt. He tugged on his coat, noticing Oliver had his on, and he stepped into his shoes without tying them, tucking the laces in instead.

They crept down the stairs, moving close to one another to avoid making it sound like two separate sets of footsteps. No one stirred in the darkened hall.

They made their way outside, jubilant that nothing had stood in their way. It was cold outside, and Alex regretted wearing so little, but Oliver seemed nonplussed. They entered the barn, and the horses nickered at them, but the boys ignored them, making their way up into the hayloft.

It reminded Alex of Clark. Again, he squelched the memory, which seemed like a sacrilege.

Oliver had been busy. A lantern was already lit, and he’d already made a fire in the small stove on the ground, where he heated a small brick. Oliver carried it up the ladder with a pair of iron tongs. Once at the top, he prepared the covers, spreading them over the hay that wasn’t bundled into bales. He ran the brick over them, warming them. Alex felt a small thrill of anticipation. Oliver turned to him, holding out his hand.

“Come here, Alex.” He nodded, and his stomach twisted with arousal at the grip of his hand. A current seemed to pass from Oliver to Alex, charging him with want.

They removed their remaining clothing and hunkered down quickly beneath the blankets, staving off the chill with skin-on-skin contact, and Alex wanted to weep with how good it felt to have Oliver beneath him, straining against him and murmuring his name in the dark. Oliver unscrewed the jar of cream and handed it to him. Alex took it with some trepidation.

“You can say no.”

“No, I can’t. I need you.” Oliver wanted this joining, even though he wasn’t completely sure of what it would involve from him, of what would make it successful. He wanted to please Alex.

Their visit together could be one of their last, when certain revelations came to light, and Oliver knew he stood at the threshold of losing something precious, and of dealing Alex a killing blow. He held onto Alex fiercely, frightening him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I love you,” Oliver blurted out. Alex paused in what he was doing. Oliver lay on his back, and Alex had just parted his legs, fingers poised to daub some of the cream over his entrance.

“Olly…” Alex was humbled.

“I love you, Alex,” he repeated. There was such desperation in his voice, and Alex didn’t know what put it there.

“I love you too, Oliver. So much.”

“Touch me,” he pleaded. Alex nodded and slowly eased his fingers into Oliver’s crease. Oliver shuddered and willed himself to relax as Alex stroked the tiny indentation.

“I’ll be gentle,” Alex promised. “Let me know how it feels.” A shuddering groan was his reply; the eucalyptus’ cooling vapors made Oliver’s skin tingle, enhancing his sensitivity. Alex’s finger carefully pressed inside, kneading and dilating him, and he flexed his muscles, growing used to the intrusion. Strangely, it felt good, this sensation of being filled, and Alex groaned at the snug squeeze of Oliver around him. “Easy,” he murmured, kissing him. Oliver didn’t let him up, cradling Alex’s nape in his warm grip. They slowly came together, embracing and straining against each other for fulfillment, and Alex rolled them so that Oliver lay on top of him, much like he had been in his suite. “I can touch you more easily like this.”

“Please.” He kissed Alex and ground himself against him again, resuming the friction he craved. “More.” Alex rewarded him with a deeper thrust of his finger, switching to his middle one as he continued to prime and stroke him. Oliver’s mouth fell open at the feel of Alex massaging those nerves inside him; the deeper he went, the better it felt. Beneath him, Alex was trying to maintain control over his erection as it rubbed so roughly and insistently against Oliver’s. His cock felt hot and smooth, and he was being abraded by the raspy texture of coarse hair at the apex of his thighs, so unlike the softer locks that fell in disarray over his brow.

“I’m going to give you more now. This might hurt.” Alex watched his face for signs of discomfort as he reached up with two fingers, gently pressing them inside. Oliver groaned, then adjusted himself around it, but he grew used to it. The slide of Alex’s fingers was aided by the cream, not chafing him as much as it would have were they dry. The slight stretch began to arouse him, and Alex’s fingertips brushed something inside him that made him moan in pleasure. Alex fingered the tender tissue inside him, pressing up against it. “Do you like that?”

“Alex,” Oliver moaned, thrusting back against his hand. He ground himself reflexively against Alex, and precum leaked from the tip of Alex’s member in response. His arousal grew the longer he listened to his lover’s voice and drank in his heat, despite the frigid air in the barn. His nipples were hard and tingling, and his body was flush with the glow of excitement and building pleasure. Alex’s thrusts quickened, deepening again once he was certain Oliver wasn’t experiencing discomfort, and he cried out this time when Oliver reached between them and grasped him, pumping him. 

They rode each other, bucking against each other as they prepared for the definitive mating. Teeth nipped and lips suckled and tongues lapped. Fingers rolled nipples and clenched long, muscular thighs. It had never been this sweet and desperate between them, never so urgent and overwhelming, and they were helpless to keep from tipping over the edge. They were gasping and crying out each other’s names and various curses. Oliver didn’t want the sensations to stop, and he whimpered in protest as Alex removed his hand. He stared at him in confusion as Alex rolled him to his back.

“Alex?”

“Please,” he grated out. “Please let me take you, Olly.” Oliver caressed his cheek and nodded.

Alex was terrified. The moment of truth had arrived, and he stood poised to consummate what was between them or ruin it utterly, but he couldn’t ignore this primal urge to take him, to possess him and hold him fast. “I love you.” It was the only thing he could say, and his voice sounded bleak, perhaps resigned. “I love you so much, Oliver.” Olly spread his legs and raised his knees, reaching for him. Alex was more than ready, throbbing so much that he ached, pulsing and swollen with need. Oliver stroked his plump, silky arousal and nodded.

“You can.” So Alex lowered himself to him, holding himself up on his forearms, and he eased himself against Oliver, letting his cock rub against his entrance. Oliver tensed in anticipation and hissed out a breath as he felt stiff flesh probe him, stretching the ring of muscle and making it burn slightly, despite Alex’s careful efforts at priming him, and his muscles automatically clamped down at the perceived invasion.

“No, no, no,” Alex whispered soothingly. “Please, Olly…please. I won’t hurt you, I promise, just relax…”

“I’m…okay,” he grunted as Alex stopped his thrust. He lay impossibly still, trying not to sink any further into his tight heat, but he was strained and frustrated. He felt Oliver shift around him, grip changing to better accommodate his girth. His hips betrayed him, instinctively thrusting as Oliver moved to make himself more comfortable, and Alex groaned at how good he felt beneath him. Sweat beaded up on his brow at the effort it took not to move, but Oliver was undoing him. “I’m all right.”

“Don’t lie.” His voice was haggard, and he looked desperate and miserable.

“I’m not, Alex.” Oliver’s breath was labored from his own efforts. “I’m all right.” Hesitantly he thrust up at him, a gentle rock of his hips. Alex groaned at the pleasure that drew from him.

“Olly,” he moaned.

“It’s all right,” he said, rocking against him again, and Alex thrust back carefully, savoring the snug squeeze of Oliver’s muscles embracing him. His channel was slick with arousal and the cool cream that had warmed from his body heat and the tender press of Alex’s hand. They moved together, and Alex pushed himself deeper, once again stroking the place inside Oliver that made his body react so violently. “Yes,” he breathed, “please.”

“Oliver,” Alex grated, rising up on his forearms, thrusting and rocking into him in a slow and steady rhythm. This was what he’d been craving, this completion and culmination of his dreams of Oliver, of those empty nights that were bereft of his low voice and knowing touch. He died when he lost Oliver, and it felt like he was locked in one of his feverish dreams listening to him chant his name.

Alex gave in to the pagan voices inside him beseeching him to claim Oliver, mark him, burn his essence into him like a brand. He changed the angle of his hips, leaning up and wrapping Oliver’s legs around him. His shoulders and upper arms burned as his hips thrust and pounded into him, harder, faster, less uneven, more determined. Oliver’s hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his back, and his face was flung back, straining, his mouth gaping open and gasping curses.

“Damn it, Alex! Oh, God! God damn it, Alex!” he cried as he hit Oliver’s prostate over and over, shunting into him and trying to rid himself of the ache of his swollen flesh, coddled yet tortured by Oliver’s tight heat…

Alex gave a ragged shout as his seed flooded out from him, drenching Oliver’s insides. He arched and bucked, eyes snapping wide open and looking down at Oliver in shock. “ _Hnnnnnghhh…nnnghh…_ ” He couldn’t stop thrusting, wringing himself dry as the aftershocks continued. Oliver’s face twisted in surprise as Alex’s final thrusts hit him, pushing him over the edge.

“Holy shit!” he rasped. “Alex!” His seed erupted from him, dribbling in a thick, sticky flood and spattering them both. He bucked up against him and held onto him desperately, sinking his teeth into Alex’s neck. Alex yelped in surprise, but he didn’t struggle. Oliver breathed in ragged pants against Alex’s throat as he collapsed on top of him.

They recovered slowly, snuggling closer beneath the blankets. Oliver’s warm breath fanned out over Alex’s scalp when he tucked his head beneath his chin. They listened to each other’s drumming heartbeats, basking in the glow of the lantern’s flickering light.

Oliver sighed. “Only two more days.”

“Shut up.” Oliver sighed, his chest rising and falling beneath Alex’s cheek.

He wondered how cavalier Alex would be by the time he caught his train.

He wondered if he would hate him.

*

Alex woke up alone in the guest room, bundled under the heavy blankets and wearing only his drawers. He half expected to find hay bits on his blankets, but he looked down and found only the clean quilt he’d left behind.

He rose and prepared for the day, bathing himself at the basin of hot water that Kitty had brought up and left outside his door. Alex shaved carefully and picked out a linen day suit. He peered at his reflection in the mirror above the bureau and ran his palm over his scalp, out of long habit. Oliver loved him the way he was, but Alex still felt like the unsure boy he’d been the day they’d met.

Oliver’s mother already had a fine breakfast set out for them. Oliver met him downstairs with a knowing smile. “How did you sleep?”

“Like the dead,” he mentioned casually as Kitty served his plate, ladling it with scrambled eggs. Oliver smirked.

“Don’t you look nice,” Oliver’s mother commented. “Keep that on, Alex. We have company coming today for a luncheon.”

“Am I imposing, then?”

“No, of course not! You might remember some of our guests from the last time you visited. I remember you played for us so beautifully,” she mused.

“We’ll get out of your way, Mother.” Oliver swallowed the last of his orange juice. “I might take Alex out riding.”

“Don’t stay out too long,” she chided him. “Don’t get dirty,” she added, fearful of any harm coming to their fine clothes. Oliver chuckled at being reprimanded like he was still a child of five.

They ate quickly and took their leave. Oliver did indeed take him riding, and it felt good to be astride again, something he hadn’t done since he left the academy. They rode the trails around the Queen estate, enjoying the shade and bird song mingling with the crack of roots beneath the horses’ hooves.

They stopped at a clearing to stretch. Alex took off his cap and fanned himself with it.

“Alex, we need to talk.”

“So talk.”

“Remember when Mother used to have those teas…when she had the daughters of her friends from church come, and you’d play the piano for them?” Oliver tried to smile. “They found you charming. They obviously didn’t know the real you.” Alex smirked.

“And you do?” Alex joined Oliver, standing beside him where Oliver sat on a large tree stump. He looked down into his face, enjoying his faint squint as the sun got in Oliver’s brown eyes. They were troubled. He caressed the crest of his cheek with the back of his index finger. Oliver caught his hand and squeezed it to get his attention.

“I’d like to think so.” His next words turned Alex’s world on its ear. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you did before I left. Things have changed.” Alex’s eyes darkened with wariness, even dread. He let go of Oliver’s hand and backed away slightly.

“What’s changed?” He swallowed. “You said you loved me.”

“I do.” Oliver sighed. “My family has certain expectations, Alex. I’m their only son. They expect me to have a family.” Alex’s stomach pitched. The glow of their night together evaporated, leaving Alex cold.

“Alex.” Oliver’s voice was bleak. “What we have can’t go beyond closed doors.” The cruel reality of his words stabbed Alex. “You know that. We’d be deviant in everyone’s eyes.”

“Deviant!” Alex snapped. “What we have together is ‘deviant?’ Olly…you sound like my father.” Oliver’s mouth flattened into a thin line.

“Never say I sound like the man you despise.” Alex turned from him and paced off toward a clutch of trees, arms folded across his chest protectively. Ugly prickles washed over his flesh at Oliver’s words.

_We each marry the most beautiful women in town and let them hang curtains and plant vegetable gardens in the back yard. We build a white picket fence. We could own dogs. And we can wave to each other over the fence every day on the way to work. We can each have sons. We can send them to the same school. Mine will beat yours at baseball._ He thought Oliver was half kidding. It was meant to be a fantasy.

“So I was just a phase,” Alex said weakly, “wasn’t I?”

“What?”

“Was I just…someone to pass the time with, Olly?”

“Alex!” Oliver was on his feet, hurrying to him and catching his arm. He spun him around roughly and barked “Will you listen to me? You’re my best friend! Like the brother I never had! I can’t help it if it turned into something else!” Alex jerked his arm from his grip. Oliver raked his hand through his hair helplessly, rumpling it.

“It sounds like that’s all I can be.”

“What would you have me do? God, Alex, what do you see in our future? Setting up house? Going to church together, or dinner socials? Listening to the folks in town whispering about us? I can’t even hold your hand in public! If anyone saw me kiss you, it would ruin us, Alexander!”

A voice inside Alex screamed _I don’t care!_ But Alex knew about appearances. A dull pounding drummed in his ears, drowning out everything else; Alex realized it was his heartbeat. It was breaking.

“Oliver…you love me.”

“I do, damn it!”

“You can’t,” Alex pronounced. He stared him down, and Oliver saw a chilling transformation envelop his lover, twisting him. His stance stiffened, and his slate blue eyes gleamed with new steel. “Deviant or not, I’ve loved you, Oliver. I’m going to be the memory that keeps you up at night. But I won’t be your shame.” His voice held something fearsome, the sound of no mercy. 

From that day forward, it was the voice his enemies would hear before he crushed them.

“Alex,” Oliver pleaded. He closed in on him, reaching for his arms, but Alex broke free of him, knocking his hands away.

“Are you already in love?”

“With you, only with you,” Oliver grated out, and his dark eyes sparked with tears. “Only with you, Alex.”

They shared a long, measured look. “You’ve been on edge all day. You told me this now for a reason, instead of waiting until I get on my train to leave. We could’ve had three days, Olly. Three days to ourselves before it had to end.” Alex shook his head and gave him a wintry smile. “Why now?”

“I had to tell you,” he said hoarsely. “She’s coming to tea.”

*

The ride home was tense and silent. As if the atmosphere around Alex sensed his mood, the warm sun dimmed and the sky shifted from cerulean to slate gray. Oliver smelled a hint of rain as they stabled their horses. It was the last time Alex and Oliver would ride together. They were both drained, and Alex didn’t relish the coming tea. He forced his face into agreeable lines when Oliver’s mother greeted them at the back door.

“Come! We’re in the sitting room,” she urged, looping her hand through the crook of his arm. Alex smiled indulgently, and Oliver followed them, projecting anxiety and grief so hot that it burned Alex’s back. Alex studiously avoided occupying the same space as Oliver throughout an interminable party. He recognized some familiar faces, and noticed a pretty girl with dark hair who vaguely reminded him of Selina Kyle. She turned and spied him, and a smile lit up her large blue eyes.

Dinah. She hurried forward and took his hand in both of hers. “Alex? Olly’s told me so much about you. I feel like I know you already. I remember hearing you play. You were wonderful.” Alex schooled his face into bland lines.

“Glad you appreciated it.” She squeezed his hand and gently released it.

“I never learned to play, but my mother urged me to sing when I was a child. I hope one day, when I have a family, that there will be music in our home every day.” A woman who had to be Dinah’s mother murmured something in her ear, and the two of them turned to leave. “I’m going to help your mother, Olly,” she suggested. Alex could tell that her mother acted in the capacity of chaperone, hardly surprising at a gathering such as this.

They seated themselves in the great dining room around a long table and ate from Oliver’s mother’s willow patterned plates. Every bite of food tasted bitter in Alex’s mouth. He felt none of the gaiety around him, having removed himself from it. Alex needed to lick his wounds privately, and each minute dragged on, killing him a little more.

Oliver’s father stood and tapped his fork against a wine glass to get their attention. “I couldn’t be more proud right now to share this announcement with all of you. My son, Oliver, has come to work for Queen Industries and joined the family business as my successor. But just when I think he can’t make me any more proud, he comes to me with the news that he’s asked for the hand of a lovely girl who I know will make him happy for years to come. Join me in drinking a toast to Oliver and Dinah. Oliver’s been my only son until now, and now I will have a beautiful daughter to welcome into the family!”

“And grandchildren!” Oliver’s mother chimed in. The assembled guests laughed. 

Alex tasted bile. He heard that rushing sound in his ears again and his heart thudded dully in his chest. He quaffed his wine in one neat swallow, and it did nothing to numb the pain. He watched Dinah and felt his heart harden against her dimpled smile and shining eyes. Her soft, feminine beauty mocked him as she stood and joined Oliver, holding his hand as he dutifully kissed her cheek.

Alex died in that moment, and Alexander Luthor rose up in his place. No longer a boy. 

Untouchable.

Unbreakable.


	13. Emerald Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex returns to work and gets himself in grave danger. And what’s happening to the citizens of Smallville?

Author’s Note: I hope this chapter actually lends this story something resembling a plot.

“It’s the damnedest thing, Eth.” Dr. Lee turned from a small bowl and pestle he was mixing and led Ethan to the back room of his practice, a humble shop building on Bell-Reeve Avenue. Ethan nearly gagged at the scents of embalming fluids. The undertaker had been there, and the body had been prepared for a humble funeral.

“She just collapsed during church,” the doctor explained. “Cardiac arrest. Folks said she’d been acting strangely lately. Moody and temperamental.”

“I know that,” Sheriff Ethan agreed.

“But look at this.” Dr. Lee peeled back the sheet, and Ethan braced himself for a stomach-wrenching sight. He wasn’t disappointed, but he held his composure.

The woman was barely more than a girl, seventeen years old. Her hands were already folded neatly over her chest and her lips were neatly sewn shut. She’d been engaged, if the small emerald ring on her hand was any indication. Thankfully her eyes were closed; Ethan always found it unnerving when he arrived at the scenes of murders or accidental deaths where the bodies stared sightlessly up at him, beseeching him _Why couldn’t you save me?_ Those faces haunted his sleep at night.

She looked like she was sleeping. Her hair was blonde and her skin held the pale deathly pallor Ethan expected, but there was something odd about her face. Dr. Lee gently tilted her face to one side, exposing the graceful line of her jaw.

“Look. Look at those marks.” Ethan scowled as his eyes traced the lines.

Green veins showed beneath her translucent skin, angry and puckered. _Green._

“What is that?”

“I’m not sure yet, Ethan.” He sighed and covered her body once again with the sheet. “But this isn’t the first incidence of this that I’ve seen. I had three more over the past two weeks. Odd symptoms, strange circumstances surrounding their deaths.”

“What do you mean, odd?”

“A lot of the folks we’ve lost have been young. Healthy, too. No complaints from any of them before that they were sick. That’s what’s bothering me. If it were something I could pin down to a recent complaint of illness, from more than one family, I’d know how to treat it.”

“How would that make a difference?”

“Then I could at least call it an epidemic.”

 

*

Alex took the roll call at the cave site from the entrance. Several lanterns were already lit within the corridor where they’d begun excavating the dense rock. The man around him eyed him warily, curious about the hard set of his jaw and the strange glint in his eyes. His voice was harsh as he read off the names. Lionel regarded him with faint amusement as he drank a tin cup of hot coffee.

Alex had been casual and outgoing before, in an attempt to win his workers’ loyalty and trust, but the town of Smallville held a longstanding grudge against Lionel Luthor, and his son was stained with the remnant of his wrongdoing. Alex tried to communicate with them with respect, never talking down to them, a habit he tried to leave behind at the academy, but they rebuffed his efforts, gossiping about him and making off-color remarks in the guise of mere jokes. They always abandoned their conversations when he approached, and they responded to his questions with scorn.

Pete was the only exception. He refused to join in with their ribbing, but he also kept his words brief whenever Alex engaged him. Clark had been the thread that bound them together during their boyhood, but Clark wasn’t permitted to work in the caves, a decision of Jonathan’s that never wavered. Pete and Alex worked long, punishing hours at the site every day, and Clark seldom saw his two best friends anymore. Alex occasionally saw him at the mercantile, but their exchanges were brief, and he hated himself for always having to cut things short.

But it was for Clark’s own good. Each time Clark’s eyes lit up when he saw him and he hurried over to speak with him, Alex heard his father’s voice in his ear, threatening him with the unthinkable. Alex steeled himself and allowed his mouth to flatten and his eyes to harden into flinty chips. There was no room in his life for the affection they shared, when it could only lead to ruin. Watching Clark’s smile fade each time they ran into each other, after he made his excuses, broke his heart a little more.

Every time Alex thought of Clark, conflicting images battled in his imagination. The memory of him as a boy who worshipped him stood at odds with the strapping young man he’d become, easily old enough for tobacco and his first shave. More confusing, still, were the responses his body felt every time Clark approached, even when Alex was just watching him silently as he entered the shop. At seventeen, Clark reached his full height of six feet and four inches and had a proud, graceful physique. The sweet, baby plumpness was gone from his face, and Clark’s childhood beauty blossomed into breathtaking handsomeness that left Alex in awe. He wore a blue plaid shirt with black suspenders and black trousers, and his feet were shod with sturdy, dusty work boots. His skin was tanned and robust, emphasizing his clear green eyes that gave Alex’s father’s emeralds a run for their money. Clark’s raven hair was glossy and rich; Alex wondered idly if it felt as soft as it looked.

Alex’s pulse sped up and his stomach fluttered at the sight of him, at the low, delicious timbre of his voice when he ordered a bolt of fabric and a sack of sugar for his mother. He watched him from behind the sacks of seed and barley, enjoying his broad shoulders and back, and the well-tailored fit of his pants, and Alex guiltily glanced at his bottom, how rounded and firm it looked. Clark counted out the money onto the counter and smiled as he chatted with Lionel’s stock boy.

His reverie was interrupted by the tinkle of feminine laughter and the ding of the bell over the door as Chloe and Lana swept inside. Alex fumed silently as they automatically swamped Clark. Chloe teased him about his choice of fabric, asking him if the floral print calico was for his new shirt, and that he would look lovely in it. Lana, on the other hand, crooned how sweet he was to make the trip to the store for the items his mother wanted, and she inquired after her health. They each fawned over him in their different ways. Alex longed to tell Chloe not to bother, since Clark had chosen Lana a long time ago, but he wouldn’t crush her dream; Alex knew too well how that felt.

*

Alex assigned the work orders for the day, ignoring his crew’s grumbles.

“We’re setting off three charges, here, here and here,” Alex informed them. He pointed to a roughly drawn map of the caves, indicating the small x’s that his father had marked the night before. “We’re going to open up a vein in the rock that we found three days ago.”

“The cave’s not stable,” Pete piped up. “Another charge could cause a cave-in.” He nodded to the map. “Especially on the west side.”

“It’s rock solid,” Lionel insisted. “There are several meters of rock surrounding that lode.”

“It’s not stable!” Pete argued. His cheeks grew slightly florid and he set his cap farther back on his head, staring up at Lionel through his auburn bangs. “The roof’s touchy. The least little rumble coming up through the ground makes the crags hanging down from it rattle. You can hear ‘em overhead.”

“Father…a word?” Alex asked. Lionel smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Alex felt his stomach knot, knowing his father would find some way to make him pay for his insolence, even if his intentions were good.

“Everyone, have a cup of coffee or fill your canteens now,” Lionel barked, clapping his hands for their attention. “We’re going straight to work when we get back.” Lionel swept away from his crew, and Alex could feel his annoyance with him all over his flesh, making him chafe. Lionel led Alex several yards away, making him join him behind the large, luxurious coach. When he faced Alex, his eyes were hard.

“What’s the matter with you? Why are you wasting my time?”

“The men know best what the insides of the caves are like, Father,” Alex pointed out. “If it’s unstable, we shouldn’t blast. Let them dig.”

“Let them dig,” Lionel scoffed. He smiled, throwing up his hands. “Let them run the business while they’re at it, son! Let them spend my money and drive my coach! Let them order me what to do, even though I’m their employer, and a generous one, at that!” Alex exhaled heavily and felt himself flush. “Time’s money, Alexander. You might remember that instead of arguing with me, drawing me aside and questioning my reasoning, and my authority in front of my crew. I won’t have you undermine me, Alexander.”

“What if one of your men gets hurt?” Alex challenged.

“They know the risks of working in a mine, son. If they’re afraid of the work, then they should go home.” Lionel jabbed his finger in Alex’s face, mere millimeters from his teeth. His pupils were dilated and his nostrils were slightly flared. Alex noticed his crippled hand was balled into a fist at his side. “Blasting through the vein will save at least three days, Alexander. Three days of wages and productivity. Three more days that the emeralds can be weighed and assessed, and that I can put money back in my pockets. I won’t have you waste any more of my time, or my men’s time, with this foolishness and this sudden conscience that you think you’ve grown.” Alex burned with indignance and at being spoken to like a child, and an idiot at that. He felt as though he’d shed ten years in ten seconds and that his father was scolding him about a loose button again.

Alex drew himself up tall and walked away before his father could go another round with him. Some of the men nudged their caps back and scratched their heads in confusion as he returned, but they didn’t like the resolute look on either Luthor’s face. Alex rolled up the worklist and tucked it under his father’s ledger on the small table where the men took their coffee. He nodded to the men beside the wagon, and they unloaded the boxes marked “TNT/DANGEROUS – HANDLE WITH CARE.”

Once Whitley pried open the box and began unloading the bars of dynamite, Alex stacked and counted them, unrolling their long fuses. His expression was unreadable.

*

 

Clark finished mucking out Biscuit’s stall and wiped his hands on an old rag in the barn, and he helped himself to a generous swallow of water from the pitcher that his ma brought out to him. He sweated less from the effort than from the heat and the warm flannel shirt he wore; he wasn’t winded or sore, pausing only to assess the other chores that needed to be finished in the barn, not least of which was patching the roof.

_HELP ME! PLEASE, HELP ME!_

Clark’s eyes widened, heart pounding as he tried to figure out what it was that he was hearing, or where it was coming from. The voice was faint but panicked, and the pitch was familiar.

_PLEASE, HELP!_

“Lex,” Clark breathed. He broke out in a cold sweat. He dropped the pitchfork and scrambled out of the barn, searching the countryside and listening to the voice that the wind carried to him. “LEX!” he cried. He was desperate to find the source of his cry.

He needed to find him. He was in trouble, and Clark’s imagination told him grim, undesirable things. Without a thought, he ran.

*

Alex lay beneath the rubble, body twisted with his efforts to free himself from the boulder that held him pinned. He coughed and gagged on mouthfuls of dust, and he clawed futilely at the piles of rock and dirt around him, attempting to clear the space so he’d feel less claustrophobic. He was disoriented and throbbing with pain that brought tears to his eyes, streaking through the dirt plastered to his cheeks.

Alex heard, or rather, felt a strange humming around him throughout the cavern. He was captivated by it despite the excruciating, bone-grinding pain working its way through his legs. More alarming were the crags and peaks of rock overhead that rattled slightly with the rumbling beneath his body. Puffs of dust were still settling in the caves, making it difficult to see.

“HELP!” he called out hoarsely. His throat burned with the effort, but he gave it all he had in the hope that someone would hear him or venture in after him. Alex felt claustrophobic and began to hyperventilate. Sweat beaded on his scalp and he felt something cool trickling down it, too, wondering if it was blood.

*

Clark heard the voice, anguished and full of pain, and his legs churned, pounding the earth as he ran. Now, he grew winded, but he denied the needs of his lungs as he followed Alex’s cries toward the caves. He steeled himself, seeing the crowd of men huddled around the mouth of the mine. Clark wondered why they weren’t going inside, and a plume of anger rose up into his chest. Why weren’t they helping him? They should have been doing anything within their power to get him out.

He didn’t ponder it long, didn’t even give it a second thought as he sped inside, whipping up the dust after him. The men outside felt a sudden, unexplained whoosh of wind behind them, whipping and tearing at their clothes and hair, knocking their caps to the ground. They didn’t see the blur of blue and black as it darted into the cave entrance, rattling the stalactites overhead.

The walls of the cavern weren’t as oppressive as they were when Clark was a child. Much of the walls had been blasted away, changing the face of the mine considerably. Clark slowed his pace slightly, but he still ran toward the sound of Alex’s voice, not as weak but still anguished. “LEX!” Clark called out. His voice was underscored by the rumbling inside. He stopped running as the dim light began to recede the deeper he went. His heart was pounding and Clark felt his skin saturated with sweat now, and the dust settled into it, covering him in grime.

He felt euphoric relief at the sound of his voice, now so close he could almost stumble over it. “LEX!” Clark cried. “Where are you?”

“Who’s there?” Alex’s voice was so strained and weak, but he didn’t believe his own ears when he heard the young, achingly familiar baritone. “Help! I can’t get up! I’m buried!”

“LEX!” Clark finally spied his body in the shadows, half hidden by the rubble. Even with his sharp vision, Clark was having difficulty picking out their surroundings. That’s when he realized that everything was blurring, even foggy. “Lex…I see you…”

“Clark,” he rasped. “Thank God you came.” Alex wasn’t worried about sounding proper or taking the lord’s name in vain at this point. He felt a brief, unwelcome flash of amusement at the memory of telling Oliver to watch his mouth whenever he did the same, or said worse. Clark looked willing to forgive him. His eyes were wide with shock, and Alex felt awful that he saw him in such a state, broken and helpless. Clark hurried to him and reached out, taking his outstretched hand. Alex squeezed it gratefully as Clark knelt beside him. “How did you get here?” he choked.

“I heard you. And I ran,” he told him numbly. His eyes flitted over him, taking in his condition, and he was horrified at his injuries. Alex was covered with scratches and various wounds that made his blood trickle into the dust, staining the cavern floor. Clark reached into his pocket and fished out a handkerchief. He mopped at the gash over Alex’s eye, helping him to see more clearly without blood clouding his vision. Alex winced beneath his swabs, and Clark stopped when he realized he was causing him more pain.

“Help me, Clark,” Alex groaned. “We’ve got to get out of here…I can’t…breathe…”

“Lex? Stay with me,” Clark pleaded, squeezing his hand again. Alex refused to let go of him, and Clark felt his friend’s pulse pounding in his wrist, molding the pace of his own heartbeat to match it. Alex’s slate blue eyes were filled with fear and desperation. Clark’s face hovered him, dirt-streaked but so beautiful and unearthly, his full mouth flattened as he stared at him. The strong chin quivered. “Please stay with me, Lex. I’m going to help you.” His voice faltered, as if to admit that he wasn’t sure of how. Alex offered him a wan smile.

“I know you can,” he told him.

Clark felt a strange wave of dizziness. “What’s that noise?”

“You hear it, too?”

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s…I can’t stand it. Lex, it hurts.”

“I don’t feel anything from it…Clark, what’s wrong?” Clark’s face twisted in pain, and he grew pale beneath the ashy coat of dirt on his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and doubled over in agony, and when he opened them again, his voice was a hoarse rasp. He gulped for breath futilely, and true fear rose in Alex’s chest as he watched tiny, spidery, greenish veins stand out along Clark’s neck and jaw. Clark was still gripping his hand, but now he was the one who held onto him, trying to draw strength from him as his body was attacked, slave to the eerie green radiance emitted by the cave walls. They continued to striate his supple, flawless skin and mar the schlera of his eyes, rivaling his irises. Clark’s voice deteriorated, incapable of words. He let out low, tortured gurgles and his mouth fell slack. “CLARK!”

“Hurtssss….rrrrggggghhhhh…” Alex twisted himself desperately until he was lying on his side, but the effort was excruciating. Even the merest twitch made his muscles knot and burn as though he were being stabbed by hundreds of scalding pokers. But he endured it as Clark slowly collapsed, gasping and leaning against his elbows, prostrate in the rubble. Clark felt dizzy, feverish and nauseated, and sweat oozed down his chest and back, saturating his shirt.

“CLARK!” Alex roared. His voice echoed off the rock, threatening the stability of the stalactites and crags overhead, but he didn’t care. “CLARK!”

Through his haze of pain, Clark opened his eyes and twisted his face up to Alex, silently beseeching him. _What’s happening to me?_ Taxing his control, Clark began to lever himself up, but every muscle in his body protested the movement, mocking him and his efforts. The buzzing in his ears drowned out his thoughts, shrill and grinding like the brakes of a locomotive. He could barely hear Alex’s cries and insistent demands that he tell him what was happening to him.

But he rose, slowly, painfully, staggering to his feet. He wheeled and panted, staring around the cavern in an attempt to find the source of his agony. The walls glowed here and there with green. He squinted at the spots, unsure of what they were.

“Shining…green,” he gulped. He staggered to his knees again and felt more nauseous than before, fires burning in his belly and making it twist and cramp. Alex strained himself looking where Clark motioned, and he sucked in a harsh gasp. They’d found the vein, now that the wall was sheered away by the dynamite. His father would be thrilled, provided that his son getting killed in the rubble didn’t provide him with too great an inconvenience.

Mean thoughts crossed Alex’s mind. Bitterly he realized that his father wouldn’t give a damn if he _did_ perish alone in the caves, especially after Alex’s earlier entreaty that they dig instead of blasting the mine hollow. Lionel Luthor despised his stepson, and he wouldn’t feel a drop of regret or genuine loss when he buried him. The job was half done.

Clark wouldn’t allow it. Groans and hoarse sounds wrenched themselves from his throat as he stood once again. He was in so much pain he was ready to pass out, and spots danced across his field of vision. He reached for the boulder lying across Alex’s leg, leaning his shoulder against it. He braced himself and pushed. He gulped harsh, dusty breaths with each shove and pushed. Alex whimpered and struggled beneath it, trying to help him by pulling his leg out by tiny increments, but it was as if he hadn’t budged. Alex collapsed in the grit and rubble again, breathing in the motes of cooling dust, and he was sobbing with pain and helplessness. “Clark,” he grunted. “I’m not…worth it. Get out. Get out now. Leave me…”

“No,” Clark barked. “I won’t.”

“Damn it, Clark!”

“Don’t…swear…” Clark grunted. He strained and grated out guttural, long heaves with each push. The boulder inched over a few centimeters. Clark huffed, paused, and pushed again with his flagging might. A flash of memory found him in the cave, but smaller, weaker, and in just as much pain. Clark rebelled against the fear he’d felt then, knowing it wouldn’t help him or Alex now. His face was still wretchedly pale and his eyes were watering. He grunted and strained, biting his lip with the effort, and Clark reached inside himself for reserves he’d already exhausted, taxing himself a little farther. Clark’s groans became a long, strangled roar as he heaved himself into the boulder, finally shoving it over and releasing Alex from his makeshift tomb. Alex’s shout was raucous and relieved, but his leg truly throbbed, pulsing and burning now that he was free. Clark’s face was suffused with joy and he dropped to his knees beside Alex. His entire body trembled. Alex hissed as he levered himself up on his elbows. “Lex?”

“You did it,” Alex assured him. “You did it, Clark.”

“Lex…” Clark’s eyes rolled back before his body quaked and seized, going into shock. 

“NO! CLARK! CLARRRKK!” Clark’s hard, lean body twitched and spasmed, and his eyes stared sightlessly up at the roof of the cavern.

*

 

Clark awoke to the scratch of rubble and low, harsh pants and grunts. 

He no longer felt nauseated, but his limbs felt boneless and limp. He was still surrounded by darkness, and someone was trying to move him. He heard those efforts occasionally interrupted by a low, choked sob. That worried him; who was crying? His skin was being abraded by the shifting ground beneath him, and he felt the drag and the cold, unrelenting gravity sinking into him, making time and the hands dragging him slow to a stop. The voice above him grunted in frustration and cursed.

“Don’t swear,” he murmured, as a frequent, automatic reflex. He let his groggy eyes wander the walls around him, and they finally landed on Alex’s ruined, desperate face. “Lex…”

“Clark,” he sputtered, and Clark was alarmed that Alex was reaching _down_ to him, shifting him and pulling on him. He felt awkward, buoyed by his friend, and when he pulled him closer, against his own body, Clark heard his heartbeat through Alex’s shirt, now hopelessly torn and bloodied. It pounded erratically and occasionally skipped, throbbing a counterpoint to the odd buzzing that assailed him earlier. But it was weaker and more bearable. Clark couldn’t find the reason why within himself or in Alex’s eyes when he stared up at him.

“Hi,” Clark offered.

“Morning,” Alex nodded. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and Clark felt his long musician’s fingers smooth back a lock of his hair from his eyes. His touch was gentle and hesitant, not taking any liberties with the supple, smooth skin. “You scared the hell out of me, Clark Kent.”

“Me, too.”

“You scared yourself, or I scared you?” Alex demanded in disbelief.

“Both,” Clark admitted shakily. It took him a while to realize that Alex had him cradled gingerly against his chest, attempting to keep him warm. Clark caught Alex’s hand mid-stroke, not knowing how his soft but gritty hair tempted Alex, and he brought it down to his own chest, holding it over his heart. Alex flushed violently and felt a fierce reaction throughout his body in response to the gesture, and to Clark’s grip on his hand. His pulse jumped beneath Clark’s circling fingers, and his own twitched as he picked up the low, even thumps of Clark’s heartbeat. All he saw were Clark’s limpid, beautiful green eyes staring up at him, red-rimmed and fringed with damp, dark lashes.

“I’m so angry at you right now, Clark,” Alex scolded. His voice was still a low rasp, but there was conviction in it. “You know how your pa feels about these caves.”

“I don’t care, Alex-“

“No! I care!” Alex insisted, and he pushed anger into his voice, despite the tide of emotions brewing within him. Clark had _risked his own life_ to save him, running headlong into the source of the one thing that could hurt him most. Clark stared up at him, chin set stubbornly against Alex’s lecture. “I know I shouldn’t have let you take me into these caves when you were six, you little brat! Nothing’s changed, damn it!”

“Some things have changed, Lex,” Clark husked. “And I don’t care about the damn caves. I’ll always come for you.” Alex felt Clark’s heartbeat speed up, and he suddenly couldn’t hear anything over his own pulse. Time stopped. Clark’s hand changed its grip, sliding up Alex’s wrist, stroking the length of his forearm, tracing the tendons where he found his warm skin through the tattered sleeve. Alex shivered at his caress. His body throbbed and he had no strength left, but he held onto Clark, entranced by the faint, gentle smile on his face.

*

 

Whitley, Jason and Pete heard the low scratch of footsteps in disbelief, and they held up their lanterns in the darkness, searching the shadows for its source. “ALEX!” Pete cried out. He stumbled forward and nearly collided with the tall, broad bulk lumbering through the corridor of rock. Lionel had held them all back from entering the cave until the rumbling had ceased, and the men fretted and argued amongst themselves of how to best handle Alex’s rescue. Lionel had reminded all of them about Alex’s admonitions about the caves earlier, how the shifting rock could be dangerous to them all, and despite their opinion of their employer’s son, they feared the worst for him and said silent prayers on his behalf.

In spite of Lionel’s warnings, Pete had ventured inside, not realizing that Alex had wandered almost a mile into the cavern in the wake of the second to last blast. They made their way inside hesitantly, heedless now of Lionel’s warnings. Jason cursed as they began to inhale the clouds of dust.

“We’ll end up with black lung,” Whitley guessed wryly.

“This isn’t a coal mine,” Jason reminded him sourly. They stumbled through the rubble and cleared away knee-high piles of it with their shovels, only pausing when they heard a weak voice up ahead.

“ALEX!” Pete cried, and he reached forward to help the man coming toward them, but blurted out his surprise when he found Clark staring back at him, filthy, with his clothing torn to bits. He carried Alex’s limp body in his arms, and he was unconscious. Whitley and Jason were horrified by the severity of his injuries, noticing blood trickling from several of his wounds, including a mean gash over his eye.

“Clark…what’re you doing here?” Pete exclaimed, dumbfounded.

“I heard the blast,” Clark offered. “Move!” He pushed past the three of them and headed for the mouth of the cavern. They followed him, dumbstruck and confused. They didn’t believe what their eyes were showing them. Clark Kent, the little mama’s boy who followed Alex Luthor around like a puppy, was now carrying him out of the mines and gently laying him in the bed of the wagon. He whipped off his ruined shirt and let his suspenders dangle at the waist, and Clark tucked the garment under Alex’s head. “GET HIM SOME WATER!” Clark roared. Pete did as he was bid, hurrying over with a canteen. Jason followed shortly with some old rags. Lionel brought up the rear.

“What happened to my son?” he demanded, grabbing Clark’s arm with his good hand. His eyes blazed, raking over the farm boy with distaste. “What were you doing lurking in my mine?”

“Saving…my life, Father,” Alex slurred. He stared groggily up at his father as Clark jerked his arm free easily, then supported Alex’s head while he fed him a gulp of water from the canteen. Alex sucked greedily at the moisture as it nourished him, soothing his burning throat and cracked lips.

Alex knew he’d never be able to explain that his miserable, halting crawl through the rubble, while dragging Clark with him, brought them far enough away from the vein of glowing green rock for Clark to regain his strength. He didn’t know that was the source of Clark’s weakness, but he knew that the buzzing was a partial culprit. When Alex’s strength gave way, he collapsed again, passing out. Adrenaline fueled Clark’s movements, and his devotion to his best friend spurred him to his feet. He gathered Alex against his chest as though he weighed nothing, alarmed by how cold his skin felt against his cheek, and he carried him the rest of the way. If Alex were awake and if he could remember once carrying Clark in much the same fashion, once, he’d have appreciated the irony.


	14. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark’s revelation changes him, and he’s less sure than ever what he wants. Lex discovers his friendship with Clark has been complicated by a new wrinkle.
> 
> Author’s Note: Thank you for reading this. Updates have been sparse. Real life sucks.

“Isn’t there something you want to ask me?”

“Pardon?”

“Clark,” Lana chided him. Her green eyes were amused at his expense, and he paused in loading the wagon. “You weren’t even listening.”

“You said Chloe’s inside,” he recited dutifully, nodding toward the mercantile.

“Buying material,” she clarified.

“Blue.”

“Pink, Clark.” He had the decency to blush.

“Pink, then.” He set the bag of flour up on the bench seat and tucked the two small spools of cotton thread his ma asked for into his shirt pocket for safekeeping. Lana sighed and shook her head. Her smile was patient, and she stood close enough for him to smell her cologne. It was light and sweet, thankfully, and it didn’t mask the delicate, natural smell of her skin and hair. Lana shook her head at him and smirked.

“For the barn dance at the Ross place,” Lana reminded him.

“Mm-hm.”

“Everyone’s talking about it and raving about their new barn. It’s twice the size of their old one. Old man Ross hasn’t moved his stock in there yet.”

“Mm-hm.” Clark mentally counted his supplies and checked the list his father gave him. “That’s nice.”

“I was planning on wearing a new dress, too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Depending on whether or not anyone asks me,” she prodded, slightly impatient. She moved between Clark and the wagon as he turned to lift a large bag of dry navy beans.

“Lana, I was just going to load these-“

“Tell me what I just said, Clark.” Lana tapped her foot and placed her hands on her hips. She was the picture of frustrated effort.

“Er…Pete’s pa built a new barn?” Clark’s cheeks flushed deep crimson. Lana almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“I said no one’s asked me to the barn dance, yet,” she admitted.

“Oh.”

“You weren’t paying attention, Clark.” That made him flush even more furiously, and his stomach knotted. Lana closed the gap between them and spoke softly enough that he had to lean in to hear her.

Well, that was a lie. He heard her just fine. Clark just wanted her to lean in closer and watch her soft pink lips move.

“I was planning to go,” Lana mentioned casually. “Were you?”

“I…I thought about it,” Clark stammered. “Pete mentioned it.” His oldest friend was counting on him to go, and Clark knew he couldn’t back out of it gracefully. He’d spent the last town social standing against a wall, feeling awkward.

Clark Kent couldn’t dance.

Lana assumed his discomfort was caused by her accusations that he wasn’t paying attention to her.

“Chloe’s going,” Lana added.

“Right. Sure. She’s making a new dress for it.”

“A pink one.”

“Pink,” he repeated. Clark suddenly felt too warm. “Pete likes her in pink.” Lana’s brows beetled and she looked surprised.

“How do you know that?”

“Uh… I’m late.”

“For what?”

“I have to get the food home. Ma’s making supper.”

“Clark! Are you holding out on me?” Lana insisted. She tugged on his sleeve, not caring that she was attracting attention from onlookers by being so forward. Her touch almost undid him, and Clark felt his heartbeat speed up.

“No! I’m not holding out about anything!”

“Does Pete like Chloe?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper. Her green eyes gleamed.

“Lana…ssshhhh!” Clark hissed, making throat-chopping motions with his beefy hand. “Enough… please, don’t say anything. Pete’d have my hide if he knew. If she knew.” 

“It’s probably just as well,” Lana sighed. “She hardly knows he’s alive.”

“I wish you hadn’t just said that,” Clark grumbled.

“It’s true,” Lana continued. “He always carried her books when he was still in school. It’s a shame he didn’t finish.” Pete Ross was an excellent student. “She rode in his wagon once.”

“Gee,” Clark murmured absently. That surprised him. He hadn’t mentioned it the last time they spoke. But now that Lana qualified how Chloe really felt, Clark didn’t want to press his friend about it. 

He’d be crushed.

“You can’t say anything.” Clark wanted to mention that he might not have to, but Lana returned to her original topic. “Are you going?”

“I guess,” Clark allowed. Lana looked very satisfied.

“Is your ma going to bring anything?”

“Probably the flowers,” Clark mused. “And some of her fried chicken.” Lana nodded in approval.

“That sounds good.”

“What sounds good?” Chloe demanded as she eyed them. She tied her bonnet strings neatly under her chin as she stepped out into the midday sun to avoid more freckles. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” Clark hedged. Lana smacked his arm, and he pretended to wince. Chloe chuckled at his expression.

He was handsome, but Chloe had given up on trying to get Clark Kent’s attention a long time ago. He was clearly smitten with Lana, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud. It was as clear to Chloe as the nose on her face. But the one thing that baffled Chloe most of all was Clark’s bashfulness. Lana would have an easier time pulling Clark’s teeth than getting him to ask her to the barn dance.

“Mrs. Kent’s going to bring her fried chicken to Pete’s on Saturday,” Lana announced. She automatically looped her arm through Chloe’s, a gesture that hadn’t died with the passing of their childhood. They would always be partners in crime. The pert blonde chuckled at her best friend this time.

“Chicken would go well with pie. My ma’s bringing two.”

“You’re not making them, are you?” Clark shuddered. Chloe smacked him.

“Of course not.”

“Why not?” Lana demanded.

“Chloe belongs in the classroom, not the kitchen,” Clark pointed out. “I almost broke a tooth on those biscuits you made.” He exaggerated, but Pete made a similar claim once Chloe was out of earshot, merely smiling and nodding over a dry mouthful of bread to protect her feelings.

“Your husband’s going to be a lucky man,” Lana quipped, wrinkling her nose.

“He’ll fall down on his knees in thanks, if he’s smart,” she agreed smugly. Her hazel eyes gleamed, and Lana read the silent intent in her eyes as they pinned Clark. _You missed your chance, farm boy._ Clark was oblivious to it, and he shrugged.

“So you’ll iron his shirts, then,” he reasoned. Chloe swatted his chest.

“I intend to work until I marry,” she announced.

“You don’t have to,” Lana argued. Her expression was slightly appalled. “Your father makes a comfortable living.”

“Ma’s giving up teaching,” Chloe reminded her. “It’s up to me to pitch in and help out. And I don’t plan to go finishing school. I want to go to college.”

“In Metropolis?” Lana inquired, truly interested now in her friend’s plans.

“If they accept me.”

“That’s too far away,” Clark complained.

“I can’t stay in Smallville forever, Clark. Don’t be silly.”

“I like it here,” Lana told them. “It’s always felt like home. Aunt Nell would never forgive me if I left.” Lana’s mother and father were killed in a freak train wreck when she was five. Her aunt and grandmother raised her and indulged her incessantly, making sure she wanted for nothing. 

Deep in her heart, she wanted to marry someone just like her father. She wanted a man who was hardworking and honest, and who would listen to her and be her fortress if life’s misfortunes ever caught up to her. Lana believed she found that man in Clark Kent. He was her childhood friend and the strong, silent, bashful type whenever she approached now, different from when he and Pete would pull her pigtails.

“There’s nothing wrong with Smallville,” Chloe agreed easily, but she sighed. “I just want more. I want to travel and see more of the world, and I want to write about it.”

“A book?” Clark inquired.

“No. I want to report the things around me. I want to work on a periodical. A newspaper,” she clarified.

“That sounds difficult. And Chloe, most reporters are men.”

“So?” Her blonde brows drew together, and she tugged her arm from Lana’s grip. “It’s time for that to change. I’m going to work for a newspaper.”

“I believe you,” Clark shrugged. The corner of his mouth curled, and Chloe swatted him again.

“You’d better, Clark!”

“I have to go,” he told them curtly, reluctant to leave while Lana was giving him the time of day. His cheeks were burning. He hoped Lana’s low sigh was because of his departure, but he wouldn’t flatter himself. Clark climbed up into the wagon and put his hat back on to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun.

“Clark, how’s your pa doing?” Chloe interjected before he could snap the reins. Clark paused and shook his head.

“He’s managing. He’s been tired, lately.”

“He needs some of your ma’s chicken soup,” Lana pronounced hopefully as she looked up at him. Emerald green met moss in the stare that lingered between them. Lana ached for him in that moment.

“Sure. That’s all he needs,” Clark agreed affably. He tipped his hat and guided his horses down the dusty street.

*

Lex winced as he rose from the chair in the Luthor’s study, frustrated with the splint that bound his lower leg. The doctor assured him cheerfully that he was making excellent progress for a man who almost died in a mine explosion, but that was no comfort to him. Lex’s bones were knitting themselves back together remarkably fast, but that meant nothing for the pain. All day and all night, his leg throbbed and made each step torture. He became handy with his cane, one of the finest offered in the catalog, and Mrs. Perry assured him that he looked rather dapper with it; Lex could care less. Whenever he caught his reflection in passing, Lex thought he looked too old for his years. His bald scalp and the faint lines etched around the corners of his mouth made him look mulish and haggard, at least in his opinion.

He reminded himself of his stepfather. Lionel, in fact, did look older than his years, thanks to his indiscretions with the bottle and an adult career fraught with bad habits. Lex grew restless with his continued residence under Lionel’s roof. It wasn’t a home; it had never felt that way, even when his mother was still alive and Julian’s laughter filled the nursery. Alex longed for a place to call his own and a life out from under Lionel’s thumb.

He missed Oliver terribly, but he pushed those emotions deep down, packing them away where they would do no harm. Hearing his deep voice filled with amusement – usually at Lex’s expense – in his head kept him up at night. He remembered the feel of his hand in Olly’s strong, calloused grip. The caress of those hands over his body haunted him, leaving him bereft of their absence.

Lex stewed with resentment. Dinah was beautiful and charming, the perfect wife for Oliver on the surface. Lex would take his lover’s betrayal to his grave whenever he admitted to himself, after much soul-searching, that what he had to offer wasn’t enough for Oliver McQueen. Once again, he wasn’t good enough for someone who was supposed to love him. He might as well have stabbed him through the heart.

Lex hobbled downstairs at a miserable pace, heading for the outhouse. Even that simple daily need was difficult, and the effort humiliated him. Mrs. Perry had the cheek to suggest a chamber pot; Lex was tempted to give her his assent, along with the reminder that she would have to look after it. How dare she make light of his disability, he fumed…

But Lex dreamed of improvements to the Luthor home, modern and all the rage in larger cities. Indoor plumbing made its way into more homes; bathing suites were equipped with metal pipes and claw-footed tubs. How marvelous it would be never to have their housekeeper bring up water again, a few pots at a time. In that regard, at least, he and his father saw things in the same light. Lionel loved new technology and inventions, and he was always looking for ways to profit from them. What if they no longer had to trek outside in the dark to the outhouse to relieve themselves? Think of the possibilities!

It was a welcome distraction from losing the man he loved. Lex went about his day performing at adjusted expectations. He wasn’t to set foot back in the mines until his leg was fully healed. In the meantime, he worked at the counter of the store, attending to his father’s bookkeeping and waiting on customers like a common stock boy. But Alex didn’t mind being inside for a change instead of in the dank, humid caves. His father’s workers came into the mercantile from time to time, and they were polite but dismissive with him. Lex’s slate blue eyes raked over them coldly as they took their leave. How dare they think they were better than a Luthor.

Alex went into the kitchen and spied a basket covered with a small tea towel on the table. He lifted it and found Mrs. Perry's biscuits and a small jar of blackberry jam. His stomach growled at the scent of food; Alex had lost track of when he last ate. He sat for a brief repast after making himself a pot of cocoa; as he dusted the crumbs from his hands with the cloth napkin, he heard a knock at the window. He smirked as he caught Clark's green eyes peering at him. "Still the same Clark," he muttered, but enthusiasm moved him more quickly to let him inside.

"They're called doors, Clark."

"I know."

"Yet you always knock on the window first."

"It's fun to watch you," he admitted before he could stop himself. Lex arched one strawberry blonde brow. Clark flushed, cleared his throat and averted his eyes, pretending to admire a Daguerreotype on the wall. "Is that new?"

"It is."

"You both look like dandies," Clark remarked as he closed in on the framed portrait.

"Father insisted on it, this time." Lex didn't know why he bothered. But Lionel Luthor cared a great deal about appearances, and to the random guest who entered their home, it was important for the two men to seem like "family."

Clark examined it closely, not having to feign interest now. Alex and Lionel both wore dark suits; Clark assumed they were both black, something that was difficult to tell with the sepia-toned paper. Lionel sat on one of the richly upholstered chairs in their parlor, while Lex stood behind him with his hand resting on his shoulder. Neither of them smiled, which wasn't uncommon when people sat for a portrait, Clark supposed. But there was something shrewd and calculating in Lionel's eyes that came through on paper; Clark felt as though he were staring right through him, mocking him.

Lex's eyes seemed flat and cold, and his stance was rigid and uncomfortable. Clark wasn't fond of the image of his friend, owning none of his usual warmth and wry humor. This wasn't the boy he grew up with.

And it was a poor representation of the man who owned his heart. Clark shivered.

"You don't like it?" Lex inquired, frowning.

"It's fine," Clark lied, smiling to cover his consternation.

"You hate it," Lex prodded. Clark shrugged, then nodded. "So do I."

"It's not you,” Clark admitted earnestly.

"Forget about it. Have some chocolate." Lex pulled out a chair and poured his guest a cup, glad to perform the small task in his housekeeper's absence. She left after preparing Lionel's dinner to care for her husband, who was ailing with an odd fever. He refilled his own cup and winced as he sat back down.

"It still hurts?" Clark's eyes were full of concern.

"It's...uncomfortable. The bone's healed, but my muscles are stiff. I still hate to walk on it, and I keep favoring the other leg."

"You're not working it properly, then," Clark tsked.

"Easy for you to say. You never get hurt," Lex pointed out, shaking his head. "Miserable bastard."

"Don't swear, Lex," Clark reminded him impishly. "Seriously. It hurts that much?" Lex flushed when he realized he'd just admitted his weakness.

"I'll manage. It's just a nuisance. Don't worry about it."

"Want some of Ma's liniment?"

"Don't let her trouble herself."

"It's no trouble. I can be back with it in a min-"

"No. Don't." Lex's voice didn't brook any argument.

"It wouldn't take me-"

"No, Clark."

"What's wrong with me just bring-"

"I said no."

"You're stubborn."

"Look who's talking."

"You don't need any excuses to speed through town, Clark. You could get caught."

"I haven't been so far," Clark shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

"I do. As well you should." Clark shrugged at him again over the edge of his cup.

"Then what are you going to do about the pain?"

"I took a hot bath a while ago."

"Did it help?"

"Slightly. It's just this little throb that won't go away."

"Maybe you could rub it," Clark mused. "Works for the horses."

"Do I look like Biscuit?" Lex snorted.

"A little," Clark said innocently. "Why not give it a try?"

"Who on earth would want to rub my leg for me?" Lex scoffed.

Heat rose up in his cheeks as Clark pushed his seat back and rose from the table. "Clark... what on earth are you d-" Awkwardness warred with surprise as his friend knelt beside him and began to remove his shoe and stocking.

"It's worth a try if your leg doesn't hurt anymore, isn't it?" Clark's hands were large, strong and warm as he lifted the hem of Lex's pants cuff over his knee and gently probed his calf. "It's a little swollen," he clucked.

"Probably why it's sore. It's inflamed."

"No scar, though." Clark sounded impressed. If Lex didn't already feel awkward enough, Clark had to push him even further into complete and utter embarrassment when he lifted his foot - his bare foot - to rest on his muscular thigh. Lex shivered at his touch and the sensation of his fingers running over the tendons in his ankle and the ball of his foot. Clark was rapt at his task as he began to knead his calf with growing firmness, and Lex released a low groan of relief. His eyes shuttered and his shoulders sagged as he relaxed beneath Clark's touch.

"You need to exercise this leg, Lex."

"Now you're just nagging, Clark." Lex cracked one eye open to peer down into Clark's face, and he wasn't sure he liked his friend's smirk.

"I learned from the best." Clark's fingers found a knotted muscle and exerted pressure on it, urging the adhesion to release. Lex winced, but then groaned again as the tension left it. Clark felt warm all over from the earthy groans of Lex's deep voice and the pleasure he heard in it as he massaged his flesh. His skin was pliable and supple, covered with a fine layer of blond hair, and the intimacy of their contact was doing strange things between his thighs...

Clark's member went hard as a rock, and he stiffened.

"Don't stop, Clark. That feels marvelous."

He didn't need any further encouragement. "Right here, Lex?"

"Yes," he sighed. "Right there."

"You're so tense."

"I can't help it. I'm a mess, Clark," he told him, resigned.

"You're not taking care of yourself."

"I don't have time," he argued. He yawned briefly. "You've got fantastic hands..." Clark worked his way up his leg, finding more knotted muscle where his knee joined his lower thigh. Pleasure wrapped itself around him as he grew more relaxed. Clark's hands instinctively molded to him, coaxing out aches and his body's complaints, and Lex felt connected to him as he gave up his pain to Clark.

His pants leg was in the way. Clark suppressed a grumble and let the hem of the pants cuff fall back into place. Lex missed the feel of his fingers on his bare skin. "You stopped."

"Your pants don't give me much room to work with." Clark looked apologetic. Lex looked ready to pout.

"I've got one last kink that could use your help." He flexed his foot impatiently, Clark was pleased to notice... "Right up here." He palmed the offending cramp at about mid-thigh. "Can you fix it?"

Lex almost regretted his request. The bottom dropped out of his stomach when Clark's green eyes smoldered up at him with need. He never took his eyes off Lex's face as his hands worked their way north. Lex's fingers tensed against his thigh and he blew out a shaky breath, pupils dilating in the wake of his plea. He only realized as Clark indulged him that he'd thrown out an offer, and a challenge.

Clark's fingers eased his hand away from where he wanted him to rub, and electricity ran through every nerve in his body. Lex's toes curled against Clark's thigh where his foot rested, and he felt his body heat through the sturdy fabric of his trousers. He pressed his thumbs into the knotted muscle, and Lex's body reacted violently. His manhood swelled and strained inside his breeches. His hips jerked briefly with the pressure. Clark's rough hands circled his lean thigh and kneaded, working him like clay.

"Does that feel good, Lex?" Clark's voice was thick as syrup and loaded with arousal.

"Yes," Lex hissed. "Damn you, Clark..."

"Don't swear, Lex," Clark murmured, but he liked the way the forbidden words grated out through his teeth, the way they caught his thin, shapely pink lip between them. Lex's hips jerked again with the rhythm of Clark's caress, and he felt a slight cramp in his lower back from the awkwardness of his position, but it was worth it. The chaos Clark wrought within his body was worth it... he was so close, so hot, and he smelled like his usual, natural musk and the soap Martha used to wash his shirts.

Alarms went off in Alex's head when Clarks fingers teased his inner thigh, dangerously close to his groin. "CLARK!" he snapped. "That's enough. Done! You're... done," he choked. His voice was strangled and desperate, and Lex was panting.

Clark wasn't any better shape. His pupils were dilated and his eyes were drowsy with passion. Alex saw his Adam's apple flex as he swallowed and cleared his throat, admiring the cords of muscle in his neck.

He would be the end of him. Clark Kent practically killed him.

With just a massage. Lex jerked his foot from Clark's lap, realizing belatedly that it had crept toward the unseen, unplanned target of Clark's crotch, its intent Lex could only guess.

"Lex," Clark whispered. "I'm sorry." Shame washed over him, and he stood in a rush, seeking to flee.

"Clark, wait-"

"Bye." Damn his speed. He was gone in a flash, and Lex sat dumbfounded, nursing an enormous, painful erection. He dismissed the fact that his leg felt much, much better.

 

*

“I don’t know how to dance,” Pete admitted to Clark the next day while he mucked out the stall of his father’s small green barn. Clark pouted, shoulders drooping.

“Well, you’re no help.”

“If I didn’t have time to go to school, Clark, what makes you think I had time to learn a jig?”

“I dunno…” Clark sighed heavily. “Well, that’s just ducky.”

“Lana might even teach you how,” Pete suggested, smirking.

“I don’t want her to have to teach me. I don’t want to end up looking like an idiot farm boy with two left feet.”

“But, you are an idiot farm boy,” Pete pointed out, deadpanning. Clark waited until Pete’s back was turned, then took umbrage by drawing in a gusty breath and expelling it in a swirling rush, lifting half of the soiled straw Pete had just thrown out with his pitchfork and depositing it back in the stall out of spite. “HEY!”

“How’d that happen?” Clark wondered, shrugging. “Too bad. Now you’ve got to start all over again. Back to work, lazy bones!” 

“What? But… what?” Pete stared at the depleted pile he’d worked so diligently on, then jerked his head back toward the again-full stall. He narrowed his eyes at Clark.

“Guess you can’t help me, buddy.”

“Well, you could help me!”

“Just an idiot farm boy,” Clark grinned. Pete gave him a wounded look, and Clark took pity on him. He went to the wall and pulled down another pitchfork and helped him clear the stall before they finished the less odious chores of gathering eggs from the henhouse and watering the Ross’ apple orchards. Pete invited him in for a plate of cornbread and honey, and they ruminated on the upcoming party.

“Chloe won’t go with me.”

“You already asked her?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know she won’t.”

“It won’t be any different than before. She doesn’t know I’m alive.” Clark winced at Lana’s words coming out of his mouth.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Easy for you to say.” Pete toyed with his bread, tearing it into crumbs and dragging them through a puddle of honey on his plate. “Everyone could tell she had eyes for you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Clark scoffed. “I’m the idiot farm boy, remember? Chloe’s the smarty pants. And we don’t have anything in common.”

“You’re both good at writing. There was nothing wrong with your marks in school, Clark.”

“She’s so nosy,” Clark sighed. “She’s nice enough. She’s pretty, if you like that look of hers.”

“What’s not to like?” Pete snapped indignantly, and Clark smothered a grin. 

“She’s just not my cup of tea.”

“No. Stuck-up brunettes are.”

“Lana’s not stuck up!” But Pete was already up out of his seat, propping his hand on his hip and sticking out his chest. He fluttered his eyelashes at Clark.

“There you are, Clark! If you bow down and kiss my dainty boots, I might let you fling yourself over that puddle so I can walk all over you to stay dry!” His voice was high-pitched, and he pantomimed throwing long hair over his shoulder.

“You’re demented.”

“You boys finished with the stalls?” Mr. Ross thumped into the kitchen, and Pete straightened up from his mimickry immediately.

“Yes, Pa.”

“Clear those plates. Don’t leave a mess behind for your mother.” Clark automatically stood as his best friend’s father approached and reached out to shake his hand firmly – not too firmly. Mr. Ross grunted in approval. “You’ve grown like a weed.”

“Yessir.”

“No doubt eating your folks out of house and home.”

“Can’t help it, when Ma cooks the way she does.” Clark grinned good-naturedly and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Pete, I’d better go.” He shook Mr. Ross’ hand again. “Good to see you again, sir.”

“Give your ma and pa my best, Clark. We’ll see you at the social?” he said hopefully. Clark blushed.

“Ma’s bringing food.”

“Clark’s gonna show us how light he is on his feet.” Clark shot him a glare, but Pete smirked and folded his arms across his chest in satisfaction.

“Maybe that Sullivan girl will be there,” Pete’s dad mused, and Pete’s mouth drooped. Clark cleared his throat, smothering a laugh. “Good night, Clark.”

“G’night, sir.” Clark let himself out, crossing the field at a sedate pace until he reached the road. He looked back over his shoulder, no longer seeing his hosts through the kitchen windows, then broke into a sprint, feet kicking up a trail of gravel and dust behind him. Clark had no more answers to his problem than before. There was still the matter of his two left feet, and the way his mind shut down every time he stared into a certain pair of hazel green eyes.

 

*

Martha weaseled his worries out of him and cornered him once the last clean dish was dried and put away. “Jonathan, get out your fiddle!”

“Ma!” Clark blushed red as a beet, mortified, but her eyes were twinkling.

“All of the Kent men are light on their feet. You don’t want Lana waiting on the sidelines for someone else to ask her, do you?” Clark watched his mother ambivalently as she removed her apron and hung it on the hook. Jonathan grinned as he took his bow and fiddle out of their leather case. He plucked a few strings arranged the chin rest under his jaw, and he launched into a reel that would set most feet stamping out to the middle of the floor. Martha dragged Clark to his feet and arranged him and moved him about with copious amounts of nagging. “Stand up straight, Clark! Eyes up, not down on the floor! Don’t be bashful!” After about an hour, he could almost manage a quadrille and a couple of reels. 

The nagging thought that he would absolutely die if anyone saw him stumbling around in his mother’s spotless sitting room made him dread the dance, and the risk of humiliating himself in front of Lana Lang. He suffered his father’s skilled playing and his mother’s painstaking lessons, hoping that it would be worth it.

 

*

_**One week later:** _

Clark’s courage deserted him as soon as he entered the barn and watched the sea of brightly colored calico dresses swirling around the floor and heard the stamping of feet. Jonathan sat toward the back of the room fiddling and working up a sweat, despite the cool evening weather. Ethan, the local sheriff, sawed away skillfully on his harmonica while Whitney Fordman’s pa plucked at his banjo, leading the clamor of laughing voices and clapping. Clark’s senses were overloaded by the noise, and he leaned back against the wall, idly sipping a cup of the warm spiced punch.

Lana’s curls bounced against her shoulders and back as Whitney led her in a quadrille, no signs of extra left feet in sight, and Clark burned with jealousy and frustration. Pete sidled up to him and bumped his shoulder. “Just planning to let him sweep her off her feet all night long now that he’s beat you to it?”

“Only as long as it takes you to go over there and tell Chloe what a nice job she did on that dress.” Chloe was chatting with one of the younger girls from the schoolhouse, radiant in the pale pink dress cut in a snug basque done up in tiny pearl buttons whose skirt fell in graceful puffs behind her. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face in a cascade of curls much like Lana’s, revealing a delicate pair of pearl ear bobs and a cameo pin fastened neatly at her collar. She’d dusted her freckles with powder for the occasion and was tapping her feet to the music. Once in a while Clark noticed her looking around the barn, and Pete must have, too, judging by the way he sank back against the wall.

“Button your lip,” Pete told him.

“She looks awful pretty.”

“So does Lana.” Clark sighed and stared down into his empty cup.

“I’m fine where I am.”

“What’s he doing here?” Clark frowned at Pete’s tone, amusement replaced with scorn. He followed Pete’s glance toward the wide door and caught sight of Alex, ambling inside with the remainder of his limp. He still used his brass-handled cane, and he managed to be overdressed for the occasion in his flocked vest and fitted black jacket, whose opening revealed the pristine white collar of his silk shirt. The rest of the company opted for flannel shirts and suspenders, for the most part, but Alex didn’t look as though he cared how out of place he was. His blue-gray eyes took everything in with a hint of amusement that Pete mistook for haughtiness.

“Don’t suppose he’ll dance?” Pete mused.

“Pete, stop,” Clark chided him. “Be polite.”

“So? One of the Luthors sees fit to honor us with his presence?”

“I don’t see Lionel yet,” Clark remarked. He scanned the room, then narrowed his eyes as he stared through the barn’s sturdy planks, transparent as glass to him thanks to his gift. He saw the coach that Alex arrived in, but no sign of the Luthor patriarch, and Clark felt guilty at how relieved that left him.

“Good,” Pete muttered. “Now Pa won’t run out of brandy.”

“Pete!” Clark snapped. “That’s enough!” Pete didn’t back down from Clark’s glare, shrugging at the sight of his tight lips.

“Excuse me if I’m not as excited to see him here as you,” he told him, and Clark shivered at his cold tone. “Lionel hasn’t done my father any favors, Clark.” He straightened up when Alex finished scanning the room and his eyes landed on them. They crinkled as he smiled and approached them.

“Is your pitching arm rusty, Pete?”

“Too busy using it to swing a hammer,” Pete told Alex simply. He stared down at Alex’s hand and grudgingly shook it, feeling Clark willing him to behave. Alex’s smile was measured as he nodded at him.

“Fine work, Pete. Nice turnout, and nice spread.”

“I’ll pass that along to my folks. Took us a while to finish the barn. Pa had the time, but money was tight after his last day at the mill.” Clark winced. Lionel closed down the old saw mill on a whim, deciding it wasn’t producing as well as the ones in Gotham’s business district or the new one in Star City. He signed away the company, making the announcement mere minutes after the ink dried and after the last man clocked out for the day. Pete pushed himself away from the wall and stalked off, joining a few of his friends from the mines, content to ignore that he’d just insulted his employer’s son, his foreman.

“Warm welcome as ever,” Alex murmured. Clark shrugged.

“Nice cane.”

“Thanks. Makes me feel important.”

“Might get in the way when you dance.”

“You can hold onto it for me,” Alex retorted. “If you’re planning to get out there and take Lana for a spin, that is.”

“I can’t ‘plan’ on it. It’s up to her if she wants to dance with me,” Clark explained patiently. His punch cup was still annoyingly empty; staring into it didn’t fill it back up any faster.

“So, you just haven’t asked her yet? That’s why Whitney is having the time of his life out there? Wait… that’s Jason Teague cutting in.” Alex tsked solemnly.

“Do shut up.”

“It’s not polite to leave a woman waiting, Clark.” Alex checked the fine gold watch that dangled from his pocket by a chain. “You’ve been here for, oh, about an hour?”

Clark looked miserable.

“There are other ways to get her attention besides dipping her pigtails in your inkwell,” Alex pointed out.

“Alex…”

“No excuses, Clark.” His tone mimicked his father’s slightly, and Clark’s green eyes snapped to attention. “You like that girl. And if you like her, you won’t get her standing against this wall, in this barn, just wishing she would drop everything and do what you’re afraid to. She’s a lady. She won’t make the first move.” Alex felt slightly guilty as he remembered his last encounter with Victoria at Ruby’s place; the first move had certainly been hers. As well as the next several.

“What if she says no?”

“What if she says yes?” Alex dangled the possibility like a carrot under his nose. “Quit being stubborn. You’ll hate yourself if you stay here all night and never try. I’ll keep the wall warm for you. Give me that cup.” Alex thought better of it and handed it back to him. “Go ahead and fill it back up, then give it to me.”

“Only because you’ve got a bad leg,” Clark groused. His cheeks were flushed, and he was fuming as he went back to the punch bowl. He ladled it full, scooping in several chunks of the fruit floating on its surface. He returned and went to hand it to Alex, but he held up his hand.

“Wait.” He reached out and smoothed down Clark’s shirt collar and straightened his suspenders. “Now you’re presentable.” He licked his finger and smoothed down a few strands of Clark’s hair before Clark grinned and swatted his hand away.

“Drink your drink.”

“Dance with that girl.” Alex watched in satisfaction as Clark rolled his eyes, then turned, straightened up and strode toward the edge of the dance floor. Clark hesitated as Lana lingered with Jason, catching her breath and glowing, freeing a strand of hair from her lips. “Go on, Clark,” Alex murmured under his breath. For the briefest of moments, Clark’s head angled around a fraction, as though he’d heard Alex, but he gave Lana his full attention, and Alex decided he was only imagining what he saw. Anticipation made the corner of his mouth quirk with the effort not to grin as Clark finally approached her. Jason Teague looked momentarily confused as he noticed Clark there, smiling expectantly at Lana. His green eyes were almost apologetic when he nodded to Jason.

“Mind if I cut in?”

“No,” Lana answered for Jason, and her expression was openly pleased, even delighted. Jason huffed and let go of her hand, but he stood still, leaving Lana to brush against him one last time as Clark led her back to the dance floor. Behind them, Alex savored his punch, chewing on a bit of fruit as he watched the snub. His amusement unfortunately faded, then completely died as he watched Clark guide Lana around the floor, following the caller’s cries. 

They were so beautiful together they made Alex ache to look at them. Clark handled Lana like she was delicate, and even if he wasn’t the most skilled dancer, he managed well enough, capable enough to make the other girls in the room green with envy that it was Lana he spun around the floor. They complemented each other, Clark’s massive height and solid planes of muscle a perfect counterpoint to her petite curves. Laughing hazel eyes challenged adoring emerald green, and Alex nearly lost it when he watched Clark grinning in that little self-deprecating way that always ended with his lower lip getting caught between his perfect white teeth, an automatic reflex when Clark stopped a pace short, just short of stepping on Lana’s toes, and she crashed into him with a barely audible “oof!” But her hands steadied her, finding purchase against his broad chest.

Yearning lanced through Alex, eyes riveted to that minor contact between them as his own hands wondered how hot Clark’s chest had to feel, how solid, with his rapid heartbeat drumming beneath _his_ hungry palms. A rush of heat consumed him, licking up over his cheeks and throat; even his scalp tingled.

Clark felt eyes upon him, and he tracked the sensation to the back of the room. His mouth went dry at the sight of Alex watching him, leaning forward slightly. His cane rested against the table, and he was still nursing the punch, but his other hand was curled into a fist and pressed against his thigh. His eyes were dilated and watching him with so much naked desire, yet suffused with pain. Clark’s breath caught, but he felt Lana tugging on his sleeve. 

“Clark? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he assured her, and her smile brightened. 

“Big, strong farm boy already worn out after one turn around the floor?” she teased. Clark shook his head, but his cheeks were flushed as he recovered from his distraction. Dutifully, he heeded the caller’s injunction to do-si-do, and he felt relieved to notice that Pete had managed to get Chloe out on the floor. The blonde’s cheeks were pink with excitement, killing Pete’s concerns of whether she knew he was alive.

“I can keep up,” Clark promised, and neither of them heeded convention in spending too many songs together.

By the third, however, Clark noticed that Alex was nowhere to be found. By the time the last depleted pie plate was covered and put away and the music died, Clark glanced outside and saw that his best friend’s coach was gone. He felt confused and bereft.

*

“Lot of stars out tonight,” Lana murmured as her parents packed their leftover food into the back of the wagon. They were chatting with Mr. Ross idly, allowing their only child a few not-quite-chaperoned minutes with Clark, several yards away and just out of earshot. They scanned the inky blanket of silvery pearls overhead.

“It’s getting colder at night.”

“It _is_ chilly,” Lana agreed, shrugging into her coat and rubbing her fingers to warm them. She watched Clark expectantly, and she wasn’t disappointed when his large hand closed around hers, one thick thumb stroking her fingers. “I had a nice time.” Whitney and Jason had already left, chafing at her refusal when they each offered her a ride home by wagon. Clark tingled with the awareness of her, the feel of her soft, cool skin and the sweet scent of her hair. She stole looks at her parents and her smile was mischievous.

“I didn’t step on your toes,” Clark said with a shrug.

“Not much,” she corrected him, and he blushed. Lana snickered. “Took you long enough to ask me, Clark.”

“You were occupied.”

“I was waiting for you.”

He didn’t know what to say, and her eyes were turning his brain to mush. She flicked one last furtive glance toward her parents, and she bit her lip with indecision for a moment. “What?” he asked her; she looked so anxious.

“Come down here,” she hissed. “Quick!”

“What…?” Her hand fisted itself around his suspender strap and tugged him down where she wanted him, and her soft lips thrust up at his, stealing away his confused protest. She captured his low hum of surprise that tapered off into a whimper. She broke the contact as quickly as it began. 

“G’night, Clark. Tell your ma that the chicken was wonderful.”

“Okay,” he breathed, and his hand suddenly felt empty once he was no longer holding onto her hand, but she was rushing to her father’s wagon, trying to look like nothing was amiss. But Mr. Lang’s brows rose knowingly in Clark’s direction, and Clark nodded at him, then decided his own parents had to be expecting him to come along… hadn’t they?

“Clark,” his mother chided him, smiling, “are you too warm, dear? Your face is flushed.”

“I’m fine, Ma. I’m all right.”

Clark was quiet on the ride home, still thrumming with excitement and restlessness. Hazel eyes and a wicked smile filled his thoughts as he counted the stars.

But so did slate blue ones, full of undisguised need.

*

Clark waited until he heard his parents retire for the night, lanterns snuffed and covers pulled up tight. He heard their breathing slow down tellingly even through the closed door, and he knew it was safe to head out. The niggling urge to see Alex wouldn’t leave him alone, let alone turn in for the night.

But to his surprise, he saw a familiar slender figure astride a gray horse out on the road, bundled in a heavy black wool coat. Alex had abandoned his finery in favor of sturdy jeans and a wide-brimmed hat. He let his horse canter toward the Kent’s spread, and Clark squelched the urge to run to him, instead waiting patiently by the fence, roughly a meter from the house.

Clark waited for Alex to climb down from his mount before reaching for the reins to lead him into the stable. Clark tethered him in one of the empty stalls and filled an oat bag for him, making the large gray nicker its thanks as he strapped it on.

“How’d you know I was still up?”

“I didn’t.”

“Climb on up. If you can,” Clark recanted, forgetting for a moment about Alex’s sore leg, but Alex nodded.

“I’m fine.” His limp said otherwise, but he preceded Clark up the ladder, and Clark watched him protectively, following him closely in case he faltered. 

“Why didn’t you stay?”

“Not much point in going to a dance social if you don’t plan to actually dance.” Alex shrugged. “Pete had already invited Father and me last month. I wasn’t going to decline. It would’ve been rude.”

“Mr. Ross would’ve understood,” Clark said with a shrug. “I was glad you came, anyway.”

“Someone had to babysit you and make sure you didn’t chicken out,” Alex agreed wryly, smirking. Clark snorted.

“I don’t need babysitting.”

“You still do,” Alex argued. “You would’ve spent the next three hours bored out of your mind, emptying the punch bowl and watching Fordman beat your time with the girl of your dreams.”

“I don’t think he’s beating my time, Lex,” Clark told him smugly. His green eyes were knowing, satisfied, and Alex knew too well why.

“You kissed her.”

“She kissed me.” Clark’s breath caught as Alex continued to stare at him, and suddenly he felt self-conscious under his scrutiny.

“You. Sly. Dog.” The tension between them evaporated and Alex gave Clark’s back an affectionate slap. He grinned at him, and Clark felt relieved that everything between them seemed to return to its usual, even footing. “So that’s your game, Mr. Big, Innocent Farm Boy. That’s how you get the ladies.”

“Shut up,” Clark muttered, but he was grinning, too. “It was nice,” he said softly. “Really nice.”

“Bold move. She must really like you.” Clark sighed and sat down on one of the hay bales, and he nodded for Alex to join him. But Alex winced and made a sound of discomfort.

“What’s wrong? Leg hurt?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Overdid it with the ride over here.”

“I was coming to see you,” Clark confessed. “Maybe you should have let me.”

“I needed to get out of the house.” He didn’t mention that he made it out the back door a mere minute before he heard Lionel singing boisterously and stumbling inside from the front.

“What can I do? Need me to rub it again?” His tone was almost hopeful. It took all of Alex’s self control not to say yes.

“I just need to get all the way off of it.” Clark’s eyes searched the loft for a moment, and they landed on a rough horse blanket folded and laying on top of a small work table. Clark retrieved it and spread it out over the hay-strewn floor. 

“See if that helps.” Clark knelt down on the blanket and offered Alex his hand, reaching up to him to help him down. Alex took it and carefully sank down to the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him. His face was strained and tense, and Clark frowned.

“You need those boots off. Your leg will swell if you don’t.”

“That’s fine.” He allowed Clark to help him remove them, starting with the offending leg first. Clark pulled it off without the use of a jack and gently laid his foot down, kneading it briefly through the coarse wool sock. Alex groaned with pleasure but shook his head.

“No need for that.”

“It might help,” Clark pressed again. “You came all the way out here to visit me. Let me make you more comfortable.”

“I didn’t come out here for comfort. Just company.” Clark sighed before removing his other boot. He set them upright against a small bench and stretched out beside Alex on the blanket with no further invitation, lying on his back.

“Have it your way.” Clark’s eyes swung away from him and stared straight up toward the ceiling. “Look at all the stars out tonight.” Alex peered up through the skylight, leaning back on the heels of his hands. Clark tucked his hands behind his head and stretched, ignoring the bits of hay poking him through the rough blanket. The cool air felt delicious. The moon was clear and bright, and a silvery halo glowed around it, making their eyes swim. Alex sank back down to the floor beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and he watched the sky thoughtfully. He set his hat aside and unbuttoned his coat to avoid it strangling him.

“It’s beautiful.” He turned slightly to stare at Clark’s elegant profile. “Do you ever sleep out here?”

“Sometimes. I like seeing the sky. I like waking up to it, too. And sometimes, I just need to be alone.”

“What do you think about when you’re out here?”

“All the things I can’t always tell people. All the things I wish I could tell people. And… sometimes I just need to be able to think without Ma asking me if I’m okay.” Clark wondered if he’s said too much. He heard the straw rustle beneath Alex as he turned on his side and propped himself on his elbow.

“Sometimes you’re not?” Alex pressed.

“Sometimes I don’t _know,_ ” he admitted. “You know I’m different. I’ll never know why.”

“Do you ever want to know?”

“All the time.” He didn’t share his father’s story of how he found him. Jonathan had always held him firmly – adamantly – to the promise that he would keep the secret of how he came to be with the Kents within the confines of their home. Even after Clark had grown to adulthood and was no longer at any risk to be taken away from Jonathan and Martha, the rest of the town – the rest of the _world_ didn’t need to know that Clark was anything but their own son by blood. Smallville’s lips didn’t need any more reason to flap. “I don’t know if I’m _meant_ to know.”

“But you’re content with not knowing?” Alex couldn’t believe it. His own brilliant mind raced with possibilities, but Clark’s soft tone stopped him.

“Don’t. Don’t wear yourself thinking about it. Alex, I’ve spent my whole life trying to just fit in. I don’t want to waste my life trying to figure out why I don’t.” Alex settled onto his back again and sighed. They both watched the stars twinkle and listened to each other breathe.

“You fit in just fine.” Alex gave him a wry laugh. “Just ask Lana. Just ask anyone. Everyone accepts you.” Clark frowned. He jutted his face toward Alex again and saw the sadness settle over his features.

“They accept y-“

“No, they don’t. Don’t lie.”

“They’re fools if they don’t,” Clark countered. Alex didn’t want the sympathy he saw in his eyes. “Idiots if they don’t see what I see in you.” A slow rush of tingles spread over Alex and small thrills curled in his stomach at those words.

“What do you see in me, Clark?” Clark’s mouth went dry as cotton again, and he swallowed roughly.

“Everything I ever wanted, Lex.”

He hated himself the moment the words were out of his mouth, and Clark winced at the sudden, sharp silence, feeling Alex stiffen beside him even though they weren’t touching. Clark closed his eyes in frustration, exhaling through his nose and bracing himself for disappointment and imminent rejection. _I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined it all between us. Now he’ll hate me. He’ll think I’m a freak._ His fist curled at his side, white-knuckling on top of the coarse blanket.

He jerked when he felt Alex’s cool, slender fingers wrap around it, lacing themselves through his. “Lex,” Clark whispered, not daring to look at him yet, but his eyes flitted down to their linked hands, his view of them almost obscured by Alex’s sleeve from where he lay. 

“That’s what I see whenever I look at you.” Alex released a pent-up, shuddering breath, and he felt euphoric with relief following the confession. The truth was precious, something he guarded so rigidly and offered so infrequently, a by-product of growing up under his father’s poisonous eye. But he offered it to his dearest friend, more valuable to him than gold, wrapped up tightly along with his heart.

“Would it be wrong,” Clark asked him, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth, in his unsteady voice, “if I kissed you?”

“I’d consider it more wrong if you didn’t.” Clark risked meeting his gaze. His heartbeat stuttered and his cheeks grew warm.

Alex’s eyes consumed him. Clark felt the soft stroke of his thumb over his knuckles, soothing him away from indecision. He rolled partly to his side, never releasing Alex’s hand – never wanting to let him go. Clark’s face asked him for silent permission, and his touch was hesitant when he stroked Alex’s jaw, coaxing him to face him fully. Alex shivered at the caress, at the soft look Clark was giving him, and at those clear, pure green eyes that were dilated with desire for him. Clark inched the rest of the way over to him and gently, slowly brushed his lips over his, an action he didn’t feel confident enough to take with Lana less than an hour ago. Alex’s eyes drifted shut and he sighed into the kiss, then returned it, feeling waves of pleasure wash through him and tingle over his flesh. Alex’s advice to Clark, shared in this same loft not long ago, on a night like this one came back to him, and he wanted to laugh: Clark’s approach was successful.

His heart pounded in his chest when Clark’s fingers explored him, stroking the smooth slope of his jaw before wrapping around the base of his neck. His thumb feathered over the back of his head, making him shiver again as those petal-soft lips stroked his, again and again, slanting over them with more pressure, heat and passion that stole Alex’s breath. Alex needed to touch him, to know him more intimately than previous contact had taught him. Clark groaned in pleasure as Alex combed his fingers through his hair, sifting through its soft, thick curls; a jolt of desire shot through him at the light scrape of Alex’s fingernails against his scalp. His fingers trailed down his throat, following the taut cords of muscle and tracing his rapid pulse.

Alex opened himself to him, and Clark gasped as his velvety tongue swept inside the recess of his mouth. His fingers fisted themselves in the collar of Alex’s shirt. His head swam with passion. Alex was his entire focus, his universe; all he heard were the soft sounds of need clawing their way up from his throat; his light cologne tickled his nostrils, underscored by his natural warm scent; Clark tasted something faintly acidic and bitter on his breath, not realizing it was brandy, but he closed in on his flavors, drinking them in with endless thirst.  
He shuddered as Alex withdrew, but he felt smug when he saw him briefly lick his lips, capturing the last taste of him. His eyes were glazed and his breath sawed in and out of his chest.

“Clark,” Alex whispered. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” His smile was bashful, and so beautiful it made Alex ache. 

“Damn it, Clark,” Alex groaned, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily. “I wanted this, too, but…”

Clark didn’t like the sound of _wanted_ or the rueful look that settled over his features. Clark stroked his thumb over his fingers where their hand was still joined. “But what?”

“We can’t do this. I can’t let you do this.” Alex rolled to his back and shook his head. The passion between them ebbed away, and Clark frowned.

“Alex, I want-“

“You don’t know what you want,” he argued. “Not this. It’s… it’s all wrong.” He released himself from Clark’s grip and leaned up on his elbows, rubbing his eyes while he brought his emotions to heel. “What we’re doing, Clark… it’s not right.”

“It doesn’t feel wrong, Lex.” 

“It’s deviant, Clark.” The word burned its way off of his tongue, poisonous… just like him. “I can’t let you go down this road with me.”

“Lex… I’d go anywhere with you.” He leaned up and pulled himself to a sitting position, hugging his knees to his chest and studying the texture of the blanket far too intently. “You don’t want me,” he guessed sadly.

“I _can’t_ want you.” Clark’s profile was picked out in the soft glow shining in through the skylight, and Alex sighed when the full lips pouted, when the dark curls rustled as he shook his head.

“If I want you, and if you want me, then it’s not wrong.” His voice was earnest, pulling at him. Alex wanted so badly to reach for him. His hands toyed with rough weave of the blanket.

“Your parents wouldn’t agree with you. Neither would the town. Clark… you have a chance at a wonderful life. You’re young. Lana has her eye on you.” Alex sighed. “You could have your pick of any woman you want.”

“What if that’s not what I want?”

“That’s not what you said earlier.”

“I like her. I do. But, Alex,” he admitted, and he leveled him with a look that made time stop, “she doesn’t make me feel the way you do.”

Alex’s heart warred with common sense. He longed for him, on some level always knew that Clark had stolen a piece of his soul from the moment they met and guarded it closely, with everything he had.

“You don’t know how you feel about me. And I can’t – won’t – let you take this any further. This didn’t happen. I’m your friend. I’ll _always_ be your friend, Clark.” Clark’s eyes squeezed shut, and Alex felt waves of disappointment and hurt rolling off of him, making the proud shoulders droop.

“It won’t be enough.” Clark wouldn’t look at him as he rose and headed for the ladder, but instead of climbing down, he jumped down to the ground, and Alex grunted at the slight tremor that rocked the loft.

“Clark, please!” Clark stalked back toward the house, and Alex bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Damn it…”

He climbed down from the loft and untied his mount, hanging the empty feed bag on a hook. The road loomed ahead of him, dark and lonely. He didn’t glance back over his shoulder at the modest house, not trusting his resolve if he saw Clark watching him.


End file.
